


An Cailleach agus an Fear Sidhe

by Drowsy_Salamander



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Accidentally wrote some cottagecore and here we are, Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Blind Melanie King (The Magnus Archives), Canon Asexual Character, Canon-Typical Worms (The Magnus Archives), Developing Friendships, F/F, I'll add tags when I need to, Jon is the town spooky man, M/M, No beta we kayak like Tim, Pining Martin Blackwood, Urban Fantasy, What the Girlfriend fluff in later chapters even though they are side characters, witch!Martin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:46:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 110,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25506151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drowsy_Salamander/pseuds/Drowsy_Salamander
Summary: Martin Blackwood had finished his apprenticeship under Annabelle Cane and was, hopefully, ready to be a witch in his own right. He had just moved to idyllic Magnuston surrounded on all sides with forests and possible dangers and it was now his job to protect this town from everything else out there. Armed with herbal teas and a talent for knitting Martin felt at least somewhat prepared.What he wasn't prepared for was Jonathan Sims, the town's prickly librarian who seemed to know a lot more about the fairies then he'd expect and who Martin was hopelessly infatuated with. Things were getting complicated fast but Martin should be able to manage it all, especially with the help of his coven.Just remember, don't leave the path in forest and beware the Lords and Ladies.(Updates on Saturday)
Relationships: Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Martin Blackwood & Annabelle Cane, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 438
Kudos: 411





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am so excited to share this with you all! This is my big project. I've been working on it for almost two months now and if it all goes as planned, should be the longest fic I've ever written so that's really exciting. I've been doing a lot of research and planning and writing so I hope you enjoy.

Martin’s little Mini wove along the twisting countryside roads between fields and forests. Inside the car, Martin was cramped from all his moving boxes squeezed into the back seat and boot. A couple of his more exotic plants were also making the trip in worn flowerpots that were balanced carefully in the shotgun seat. His phone was resting on the dashboard showing his location in the snaking roads. Martin kept checking it for reassurance, even as the signal became worse. Martin was certain he was going the right direction and he should arrive Magnuston soon.

Which would be the cause of a whole other host of things to make him nervous or stressed.

He, Martin K. Blackwood, was going to be responsible for a whole community, a whole town. Look after the elderly, help the sick, protect the helpless, all of it. He just didn’t feel ready for such a responsibility no matter what Annabelle said. Martin could almost picture Annabelle seated beside him giving a slightly dismissive eye roll and a casual ‘Obviously you’re ready, Martin, I wouldn’t let one of my students out where they could embarrass me if they weren’t ready’. He’d packed all the books he’d bought on the topic of witchcraft and his own notes from Annabelle’s tutelage. Although, she’d always been keen to point out, notes and writings aren’t what make a witch, it’s the gut instinct.

Martin just couldn’t help but feel someone had forgotten to give him the ‘gut instinct’. Perhaps he could ask for a refund?

The car crested a hill and suddenly Martin could look down onto a town that according to the map, was Magnuston. It was a small town, nestled in the shelter of gentle hills. It was mostly surrounded by forests but a bit to the northeast, moorland stretched out, the so-called ‘Empty Moor’. Over to the west was the river Conventry that flowed on into a neighbouring villages. The town was picturesque. A tall church spire sticking out above the sloped rooves. Martin drove around the perimeter of the town, searching for his new house. He knew that it was slightly outside Magnuston. Martin kept consulting his phone. He’d seen pictures of the place; he knew he’d know it when he saw it. Martin stopped the car and stepped out to look at the cottage. He double checked his location on his phone one last time, confirming he was in the right spot, and approached.

The cottage had white plaster walls and a low roof. Ivy crawled up the wall and hung in front of a window. A cobblestone wall encircled the small front garden. Martin was rather pleased to see the upturned soil in the garden. Ready for new plants. Martin fetched the keys he’d been mailed and unlocked the bright red door. There was a happy little welcome mat that Martin obediently wiped his shoes on, then felt rather silly as this was his house now.

The cottage was two floors more in theory than in practice, the bedroom was the entire attic with the bed right under a window overlooking the town. Downstairs, the sitting room was long with a couch that coughed dust opposite the fireplace and a table with a pair of chairs nestled in a corner. The kitchen was cramped, and Martin just knew he would hit his heads off the cabinets while cooking. The back garden was visible through the dirty kitchen windows and was completely overgrown, weeds surrounded an old rowan tree and the hedge at the end of the garden was making a valiant attempt to return to the wild. The whole building smelt faintly of dried mothballs and there was a light coating of dust of most everything. The cottage was, in short, exactly what Martin had expected and hoped for.

The gardens were ready for him to reshape and start growing his herbs and the sitting room had enough space for a good Weaving. He’d be able to grow flowers in the window boxes and maybe some cooking herbs as well as his more _colourful_ herbs.

Martin unloaded his car, bringing the countless boxes inside and spent the next two hours unpacking. Clothes into the wardrobe and his own tea set into the kitchen cabinets. The last box was the largest. It was full of wool. Some of it simple craft wool, others more expensive merino wool and even some of the special spider silk wool he’d asked Annabelle make for him. Annabelle was always happy to do her Weavings with direct spider silk, but Martin found the stuff too fiddly and didn’t have quite the same connection Annabelle did with spiders. Besides wool could also be used for knitting. Underneath all the wool and loom were his metal knitting needles. Martin smiled a little fondly at them. He’d made so many warm scarves and hats with them. In fact, the cosy blanket he’d draped over the old sofa was one of his own projects. Apart from his own use of them, they were important for his business, selling all kinds of knitted or woven goods, some magical in nature while others entirely mundane. He even had a website set up which he was rather proud of.

Martin moved into the kitchen and filled the kettle, setting it to boil. He’d already put his potted plants on the kitchen table and began carefully examining them. The comfrey plant was looking a little wilted and some of the mugwort’s leaves were battered. Martin set about pruning and watering each of his plant, chattering away to them all the while. A part of him felt a little silly talking to plants like old friends but he felt quite fond of them. He’d grown each of them from a seed to their current magnificent plumes. Annabelle had allowed him a part of her garden all the while looking at him in bemusement. Annabelle never really deigned to get her hands dirty but Martin found there to be something soothing about gardening.

Besides, his plants were hardly just decoration. Martin took a few sprigs of sage and bustled over to where the kettle had just finished heating. Martin, with a well-practised movement, made himself tea. Herbal teas were his own speciality. While Annabelle had taught him how to Weave and read the health of a domain, Martin had learnt about healing teas himself. He sipped the sage tea. While he mostly only prescribed sage tea to children with upset stomachs, he’d taken to drinking it for its calming effects. It helped ease his nerves.

He could do this. He could be a witch.

Martin’s newly gained confidence almost immediately crumpled upon unpacking his witch’s hat. It, as was traditional, was black with a wide brim and a sharp point. Hat pins kept in place, stopping it from flopping over. It was well made and it fit him correctly but when Martin looked at himself in the mirror, he just couldn’t help but feel like he had borrowed an actual witch’s hat to play pretend. Still it was important. You couldn’t be a witch without a proper witch’s hat, it was the thing that denoted a witch, how people knew who to come to for help (or avoid desperately).

Martin held it in his hands and stared at the pockmarked mirror in the bathroom. Should he wear it? He was going to need to go into town to pick up groceries and it was important to introduce himself as The Witch immediately rather than retroactively reveal it. Or was it? Was a Tesco the best place to make his debut? Actually, where was a good place to do so? There hadn’t exactly been a handbook on how to do any of this.

“Okay, breathe.” Martin said to his worried reflection and took a sip of his tea. He was over thinking things. He could do this.

He put the hat on and determinedly went out to buy food.

Actually going into Magnuston allowed him to get a better sense of the town. The streets were narrow and the parked cars made them even narrower. A lot of the town was quite old and, in some parts, Martin could even spot the old cobblestone. Most of the buildings tried to be cohesive even if they were built centuries apart. On Main Street there was a long line of restaurants, cafes and shops, all catering to the tourist trade that the town received.

From Martin’s research, he knew that most tourists were attracted by the hiking trails (the trails had strict instructions that hikers _never_ stray from the path) and the old Magnus Manor. Magnus Manor was a Georgian estate, remarkably untouched since the 19th century about a five-minute drive outside the town. The town itself had actually sprung up at the edge of the estate and had continued to grow even after the Manor was left abandoned. The Manor had been made into something of a historical site, emblematic of Georgian living. Guided tours were offered. Martin had no particular intention of visiting. He didn’t really have an interest in Georgian manors even one with so many ghost stories about it. The ghost stories were enough for him.

Martin parked opposite the library as the street outside the Tesco was already full of parked cars and went inside. The harsh lighting common to supermarkets everywhere was jarring compared to outside’s soft evening light. He grabbed a trolley from the rack and then did his shopping.

While browsing the aisles, Martin noticed some of the other costumers giving him looks. Not necessarily negative looks, just curious. He reached up and adjusted his hat slightly. Just as he was comparing different bolognaise sauces, a middle-aged woman came up to him.

“Hello there, you must be new in town.” Martin glanced up at her. She was quite small, veritably dwarfed by him and was looking up at him through a pair of glasses. She had a rather warm smile, the kind Martin had always wanted from his mother.

“Oh yes,” Martin said. “Just moved in today in fact. Up into Rowan cottage.” Martin figured he ought to let people know where he lived for whenever they needed a witch’s help.

“ _Oh,_ Rowan cottage! It’s just lovely isn’t it. Got such a beautiful view of the town from up there.” The woman trilled.

“Heh, yeah,” Martin said. “It’s a really nice place. Um, good place to start practicing witching and all.” On the inside, Martin wanted to die. What was that? God, could he be any more awkward?

“Oh, so you are a practicing witch.” The woman said, sweeping past Martin’s awkwardness. “Well let me be the first to welcome you to Magnuston, dear. My name’s Rosie.”

She stuck out her hand and Martin gladly shook it. “Martin Blackwood.”

“Lovely to meet you, dear.” Rosie said. “So, what made you choose Magnuston as your domain?”

“Oh well, you know,” Martin said vaguely. “The scenery is lovely, and a pair of witches nearby put out a listing for a coven so you know, I thought why not?” Martin gestured vaguely at the shelves of pasta sauces.

“Oh, a coven! That’s a group of witches, right?” Rosie said.

“A group of three witches in a similar area, yes.” Martin said.

“Very exciting. So, would that be Sasha James? From Millbank?” Rosie asked, excited.

“Yeah, Sasha and, um, Tim Stoker from Conventry.” Martin said.

“Now, I don’t know Tim but Sasha is an absolute dear.” Rosie said. “She’s absolutely lovely, been looking after us a bit ever since Gertrude died.”

“Was Gertrude the last witch here?” Martin asked. He hadn’t known there had been any witch in the town, he’d has the impression that it was a rather abandoned region.

“Oh no, Gertrude was Millbank’s finest, but she tended to get involved even outside her patch.” Rosie said. “We haven’t had a witch in Magnuston for such a long time. Gosh, not since I was young”

“Oh wow, well, I’m here now.” Martin spread his arms awkwardly.

“I think it’s wonderful that you’re here.” Rosie gave a tinkling laugh. “I’m sure you’ll do wonderfully, dear.”

“Thank you.” Martin said. “If you ever need any help with anything, just let me, um, know.”

“Oh, and you too.” Rosie said. “If you’re ever in the post office, just ask for me and I’ll help you out, dear.” Rosie smiled one and Martin exchanged some final pleasantries before she trotted off with her trolley. Becoming friendly with the post office workers was probably useful considering how often he’d be posting off things to his costumers.

Martin let out a great breath. He’d done it. Introduced himself as the new witch and it had gone well. If the rest of the town was like Rosie, he’d have no problems. In a fit of inspiration, spurred by his new good mood, he decided to buy baking ingredients. Bringing a batch of brownies was certain way to make a good first impression to the coven.

Martin cheerfully left the Tesco, hope for his future blossoming even as he struggled with the bags of shopping. He fumbled with his keys before finally unlocking his car and stacking the bags inside. As he finished, Martin stood up and happened to look across the street. The sun had set further and the light was streaming right into Martin’s eyes so it took him a second to realise that there was someone locking up the library opposite his car. Boyed up by his previous success, Martin decided to introduce himself and started to walk across the street when he got a better view of the figure.

It was a man. He was a bit short but his thin build made him appear taller. He was wearing too many layers for a summer evening, a long coat which hung down to his knees and whose sleeves covered his hands and large boots. It was rather in contrast to his almost delicate facial features. He had a thin face with a long nose and high forehead. His hair was a rich brown, tied in a careless ponytail. The evening light caused it to shine.

Martin stopped where he was standing as his heart suddenly bounced. He stared as the man finished locking up the library before walking away. Martin watched the man’s retreating figure. Once the man was gone from sight, Martin shook himself and went into his car. He wasn’t sure what about the man had struck him but he had. Martin could admit to himself that he was captivated. Captivated by someone whose name he didn’t even know.

Martin put his head in his hands. Why did he always do this? It wasn’t as though he didn’t have enough to do already.


	2. Chapter 2

In a clearing in a forest on a hill were three figures. The sound of heavy rain and thunder crashed through the space but the trio did not acknowledge it, sitting at ease until the woman turned to one of the men.

“Tim, could you turn that off? It feels a bit ridiculous.”

Martin chuckled gently to himself as Tim held up the speaker. “But _Sasha,_ the ambiance!”

“We are not pretending there’s a great big thunderstorm when there’s weather like this! _”_ Sasha gestured at the clear sky and bright sunshine around them.

“Come on, it’s for the drama.” Tim protested. “Martin, back me up on this.”

“Oh, um, well,” Martin started, surprised to be consulted. “It does feel a bit silly.”

“Traitors, the lot of you.” Tim declared. “No sense of style.” Tim switched the speaker off and the sounds of a dramatic storm, ceased.

Sasha laughed openly. “Stop being such a drama queen, Tim.”

Martin leant back chuckling gently. He hadn’t been entirely certain what to expect of this coven, each coven differed wildly in seriousness and atmosphere so he’d been rather nervous. He’d met Annabelle’s coven several times. Oliver Banks and Mike Crew had been friendly but Martin had always felt intimidated by them. They all just seemed so professional and they didn’t even seem to all _like_ each other. When Martin asked Annabelle about it, she just said a blasé ‘keep your friends close and your enemies closer’ which was hardly inspiring. So, it was a rather nice surprise to see that Tim and Sasha seemed to be genuinely friendly.

Sasha and Tim also weren’t quite what he’d expected. Tim was seemingly incapable of sitting still and was, well, hot. He just had an easy confidence to him that made him remarkably charismatic and aside from that, he was just nice to look at. Martin had blushed a bit when he first met him. Tim also seemed so casual. He was wearing jeans and a crop top to a coven meeting for heaven’s sake. His witch’s hat was covered in badges and patches, Martin could spot several bisexual pride badges. Sasha meanwhile… Martin had just never heard of a witch being so bright. Her hat was covered in sunflowers and she wore a bright yellow shirt that complimented her brown skin. She had a wonderfully warm smile and bright eyes. Her dark curls bounced around her face as she gestured and she was just so nice.

They’d met at the small parking lot by one of the hiking trails. Martin was rather relieved to see that while Tim had arrived by broomstick, Sasha had cycled. Martin had never learnt how to fly, Annabelle had no interest in it and Martin hadn’t had the confidence to ask Mike. Tim had happily led them to where their ‘first official coven meeting’ was to be held. Sasha whispered to Martin that she’d just wanted them to meet in café but Tim said it needed to be more ‘witchy’. Sasha had shared an exasperated but fond look with Martin before Tim butted his way into their conversation.

So now they were here in a clearing midway up a hill that Martin was fairly certain was typically populated by people out on ‘a lovely walk out with the family’. There was even a picnic table and benches.

“-Martin?” Martin jerked himself out of his thoughts to see Sasha’s expectant face.

“Um, sorry what was that?” Martin said, embarrassed.

“Oh, I was just asking about who taught you.” Sasha said. “Both Tim and I were taught by Gertrude Robinson. I’ve actually never met any other witches.”

Martin started. “Really?” That was very unusual. Witches only took on a student when they felt ready and the craft had chosen the student. Martin always liked to believe there was an element of fate to it. A pairing between witch and apprentice only happened once both were fully ready and it was quite a personal learning experience. As witchcraft came from the individual, the teacher would guide their student in the direction their power developed while teaching them what they had specialised in. It was a time consuming and emotionally investing task. Martin had lived with Annabelle for three years before finally moving to Magnuston and he’d been getting lessons from her even before that. So, the idea of Gertrude Robinson having two apprentices at the same time or at least back to back was very out of the ordinary.

Aside from that, it was surprising that Sasha hadn’t met any other witches. Witches weren’t exactly common, per say, but most witches knew other witches and it would be odd that they would never interact. Martin had met quite a few witches even though Annabelle was rather reclusive. Gertrude must have been very isolationist.

Something of Martin’s thoughts must have shown on his face because Tim scoffed. “Sasha’s being nice. She was Gertrude’s apprentice. I’m a self-taught witch, thanks.” He grinned at Martin rather pleased with himself.

“I didn’t know there were self-taught witches.” Martin said. He couldn’t even imagine how strong your sense of self and willpower would have to be to become a witch entirely alone. That’s without the amount of research and study you’d have to do alone. “That must’ve been so hard.”

Tim shrugged. “Eh, google has a lot of info. And libraries also have way more stuff on witches, like personal accounts and those are pretty helpful. Would definitely recommend libraries. They also tend to have stuff on local history and folklore that’s good for learning about the you-knows.”

Sasha snorted. “It was hardly as though you had no help Tim.” She looked over to Martin, ready to tease Tim in front of a newcomer. “I first met Tim when I was visiting Gertrude and found her yelling at Tim in the garden. Tim had tried some kind of fire magic and all he managed to achieve was setting a tree on fire and annoying the fair folk. If Gertrude hadn’t stepped in, Tim probably would’ve gotten into a fair bit of trouble.”

Tim looked vaguely embarrassed, rubbing his neck. “I know what I did wrong now.”

“That’s nice.” Sasha said. “Anyway, Gertrude taught him some basics so he wouldn’t end up blowing up the whole forest.”

“Bit hypocritical of her though,” Tim said, rummaging in his bag. “It’s not like Gertrude wouldn’t try to blow up the forest. Ah ha!” Tim pulled out a couple bottles of beer. “I knew these were in here.”

“Really, Tim?” Sasha asked disapproving even as she took the proffered beer.

“Come on, it’s a celebration.” Tim spread his arms wide. “We finally have a coven, and the new witch has more than nine months training and is pretty easy on the eyes.” Tim winked at Martin.

Martin blushed furiously and decided to just not acknowledge it. “Wait, nine months? I mean I understand how Tim didn’t end up with much if he wasn’t actually trained under Gertrude but Sasha, I thought… I mean not that I’m judging. I’m sure you know a lot more than I do, you probably just picked it up faster.”

“It’s alright, Martin.” Sasha waved a hand, brushing Martin’s uncomfortable ramblings aside. “I don’t think Gertrude really wanted to take anyone on. I’ve just known her for quite some time, used to help her out with somethings. So, when she realised she was going to be dying soon and there was no witch in the area to take over, she told me I’d be a good replacement.”

“Did Tim not count?” Martin asked.

Tim actually laughed. “Not by Gertrude Robinson’s standards.” Martin chuckled along with him.

Sasha took a drink from her beer. “Anyway, I’d always wanted to be a witch so I took her up on her offer, learnt under her until she, um…”

“Died?” Martin hazarded in as tactful a tone as he could manage.

“I don’t know.” Sasha said, addressing her beer. “We haven’t found,” she swallowed, “the body but Gertrude is not one to take stupid risks. I’m pretty sure the good neighbours did it.”

“I’m sorry,” Martin mumbled. “that must be hard.”

Sasha shrugged, not looking him in the eye. “All I can do is try to be a good successor.” Martin nodded in understanding. Trying to live up to someone’s expectations, that was something he could understand.

“So yeah,” Tim said, when the silence started to become uncomfortable. “Martin. You still haven’t told us about who taught you.”

“Right, yes.” Martin said, keen to change the conversation. “Um, so I was taught by Annabelle Cane. Um, she specialises in Weaving. She’s pretty well-known for it.” The best Weaver in the country, Annabelle was happy to boast. Martin was pretty certain the only reason she didn’t claim to be the best in the world was because someone might actually challenge her on that. Still… “…she’s a master of it. It’s kind of amazing what she could do.”

“I think I’ve heard of her.” Sasha said. “Gertrude mentioned her, I think.”

“What’s Weaving?” Tim asked at the same time.

Martin looked back and forth between the pair before deciding to answer Tim’s question. “It’s like a representation? It’s a kind of sympathetic magic. When I make a Weaving, I keep something in mind and then let my hands just _do_ the weaving. Then, once I’m done, I can read the Weaving and it can be a kind of assessment of what I was thinking about. Like it’s most common for a witch to do a Weaving of their community, get a sense of the health of the area.”

“That’s interesting.” Sasha said. “Gertrude taught Tim and I scrying which I think we use in a similar way.”

“It doesn’t have to be passive,” Martin said. “It you’re good enough at it, you can move the Weaving to affect what it represents.” Annabelle had a huge Weaving in her house, the room it was in was two stories high and empty of any other furniture, and she could use it to influence her domain. She actually rarely left her house, only using her Weaving to manipulate the people in the town. She had never really been big on actual interaction with her patch. “And it can also be used for introspection, do a Weaving of yourself.”

“Nice.” Tim laughed. “Free therapy.”

Martin laughed along with him. “Something like that.” Martin tried some of the beer Tim had brought. It was rather watery and had gotten warm sitting in Tim’s bag but to Martin, it tasted wonderful. “So, what’s the situation here with the, ah, lords and ladies? Apart from the Lonely Moor.”

Tim stiffened before relaxing and Sasha stepped in to respond. “It’s pretty active.” Martin nodded solemnly. That wasn’t great. “Dancers appear a bit more than is comfortable and there are quite a few fairy rings.”

Tim snorted. “Not that they’re always rings nowadays. What did your pet pookas call it? ‘Modernisation’?”

Sasha rolled her eyes and caught Martin’s confused look. “There’s a pair of pookas that like to appear in the fields near where I live. They call themselves ‘the Lying Twins’.” She explained to Martin.

“Sasha calls them Michael and Helen.” Tim said lightly but clearly, he wasn’t happy with the situation.

“I need to call them _something,_ ” Sasha said, defensively “and I can hardly expect them to give me their real names.”

“It doesn’t mean you need to be so fond of them.” Tim said.

“I’m not.” Sasha snapped. “I know as well as you do that they’re dangerous but I don’t see anything wrong with using them for information if they’re friendly.”

“Just because they can act nice doesn’t mean they’re not still fai—” Tim cut himself off just in time. A wind blew through the clearing and the leaves rustling sounded malevolent. Martin shifted uneasily as he thought he could feel something staring at him, eyes hidden by the trees.

“Right,” Martin said uneasily to fill the silence. “where I came from, we mostly had problems with giant spiders eating people.”

Sasha and Tim stared at Martin with twin gobsmacked expressions. “Okay, that’s different.” said Sasha after a moment.

“Yeah,” Martin said with a joviality he didn’t necessarily feel. “The good neighbours weren’t particularly subtle there. Not much business, um, luring people in. Just straight to eating them.”

“Did it happen much?” Sasha asked, appalled.

“No, I don’t think so.” Martin said. “We tried to stop it and most people will run away from even small spiders.” Martin had never understood this. Spiders were an important part of the ecosystem and were completely harmless. There was no reason to fear them just because they look a little odd. Martin had always thought they were rather cute.

“Guess you wouldn’t have too many problems with people walking in the woods then.” Tim snorted. “Hard to be enticed with promises of grandeur by something that looks like it wants to eat you.”

Walking in the woods. Such a nice euphemism for a rather horrible thing. Martin had never really liked the phrase. Deal making was better or if you wanted to be accurate ‘signing your humanity away to fairies in exchange for something stupid.’ Martin had never really had to deal with them directly. Most who would be so inclined, and there weren’t many, Annabelle pulled away before they could ever make contact. Still when people slipped through the cracks and made their way to the fairies… it was bad. That was not something Martin wanted to think about dealing with.

“D-do many people go walking in the woods here?” Martin asked his beer.

“Hard to say.” Sasha said. “A lot of the time, they get written out of people’s memories. Gertrude kept track but she’d burnt any records she’d once had. I’m hoping it’s an inherent witch thing, being aware of anyone so inclined, so I can be on the lookout but…” Sasha shrugged.

“Feel that.” Tim agreed, inclining his beer towards her.

The conversation fell into a lull before Martin started looking in his bag. “I, um, made some brownies,” he said awkwardly pulling out his tin. “just if you’d like some.”

“Hell _yeah,_ I want some brownies!” Tim bounced with excitement. “Watch out Sasha, Martin’s going become my favourite.”

“It’s nothing big really.” Martin insisted pulled the tin free. “I just wanted to do something nice.”

“That’s very sweet, Martin.” Sasha said as Martin offered the brownies around and Martin beamed.

The rest of the coven meeting passed in high spirits with casual conversations. Sasha was very interested in Martin’s knowledge of herbs despite Tim pointing out that anytime she tries to keep plants they die immediately. (“She managed to kill a cactus,” Tim rolled his eyes while Sasha spluttered a defence.) Tim was happy to share gossip about people Martin didn’t know but it was just fun to listen and Sasha would chime in with details Tim had left out. Eventually Sasha decided to call the meeting to a close and the next meeting was agreed to be at the full moon. Tim insisted they meet by moonlight in a suitably spooky location and Martin agreed that it might be rather fun.

Martin felt pretty good as he drove back to his cottage even though he couldn’t shake off the feeling that something was watching him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, Martin does some gardening, helps someone with a rather supernatural problem and has an actual conversation with Jon.
> 
> Please leave kudos or a comment if you enjoyed!


	3. Chapter 3

There was something very satisfying about digging. You knew where you were with digging a hole. There was a comfortable rhythm to it, a simplicity when compared to most things. Martin wiped sweat off his forehead and turned to face his plants. The other day, he’d driven out to the garden centre. It had been a bit of a ways away and he doubted he’d be going back soon still, it had been a very useful trip. Martin picked up the elderflower bush and carefully lifted it into the freshly dug hole. Once he’d adjusted it so the bush was nice and straight, Martin began shovelling fresh soil around it until the hole was full.

Martin took a step back and looked around his garden. He’d managed to tame the wilderness that had been growing there, fighting back ivy that had been chocking bushes and uprooting the weeds. He’d left the natural wildflower patch that had developed but had decided to turn an empty patch of soil into a vegetable patch. He’d put the seeds in earlier today and soon would be growing radishes and beans and sprouting broccoli. Maybe next year he could grow carrots and potatoes but this would do for now.

Martin looked at his work with satisfaction. Right now, it only looked like up turned soil, unruly grass and fresh-faced bushes all in the shadow of the old rowan tree but Martin just knew that it would be wonderful. That was the other great thing about gardening, Martin thought as he went inside to make himself tea, the gratification of seeing something grow and knowing that you were the one to help them. Seeing how work from months ago could all come together to form something beautiful and practical, a space Martin could just enjoy. It was wonderful.  
This was the first time Martin had a whole garden he could call his own. Annabelle’s house had extensive grounds and she was more than happy to let Martin deal with all that earthy stuff and before that Martin had been in charge of gardening in his mother’s house, but this was different. This was _his_ house, entirely Martin’s. He didn’t have to consider what anyone else would want, he could just build a spot just for him.

Martin looked up and saw a spider sitting on the ceiling. He smiled gently at it. “Hello there.”

He wasn’t sure if it was just a spider or one of Annabelle’s but it made him feel good to see it.

There was a knock on the door suddenly, jolting Martin out of his quiet reverie. He put his tea down and hurried to the door. Then hurried back away from the door to grab his hat. This was could be official witch business. The first person coming to him with a problem, this could be important and if it was something he needed to handle well then, he could do it. Martin let out a breath and opened his front door.

There was a slightly short, middle-aged man standing outside. He looked immensely relieved to see Martin. “Are you the new witch?”

“Er, yes. Yes, I am.” Martin said, resisting the urge to straighten his hat. He was rather pleased that word about him had gotten out. Someone had already come to him for help. “My name’s Martin Blackwood.”

“Andre Ramao,” the man responded. “So, you know how to deal with, um, rather, that is to say, _unusual_ things?”

“I suppose.” Martin tried to parse Andre Ramao’s rather unclear question.

“So, you would be able to help me?” he asked. “You’d believe me?”

“Yes, of course I would.” Martin said to soothe the agitated man. “Would you like to come in for some tea?”

“No, no thank you,” Mr. Ramao said. “Would you be able to come now? I just worry that-that if you don’t come now, you’ll forget.”

Martin supposed most people would at this point ask follow up questions or become indignant, how could you think I’d just forget, why would you think so little of me, I could be in the middle something, but Martin looked at his desperation and nodded. Desperate people don’t tend to be deliberately odd. There’s a reason behind it and simply dismissing it is cruel. “Alright, Mr. Ramao, do you want to tell me a bit about what’s wrong before we go?” Even if he didn’t know where they were going to.

Mr. Ramao swallowed. “Things have just been vanishing from-from my house and my business and no one ever seems to remember them except for me. I swear I’m not crazy, I know that I owned whatever’s disappeared but then I can’t find any record of it but the absence is so-. For-for example, I run the antiques shop on Main Street but it’s not just antiques, I also sell old jewellery and even some paintings and I bought earrings second hand, they were so expensive and now they’re gone and I have no way to get back that money and no one else thinks they existed. I can’t find any transaction records from when I bought them, or any postal history it just never happened except I know that it did! I know it.” Mr. Ramao stared at Martin as a buried man stares at the glimmer of light. “You must believe me.”

“I do believe you.” Martin said emphatically. “It’s been happening in your shop _and_ your house?” If it was spread across two locations, that was definitely a problem.

“I live in the flat above the shop with my husband.” Mr. Ramoa said.

“Oh, that’s good.” Martin relaxed. “I’ll need to have a look at inside the building, um, it might take a little while.”

“Please.” Mr. Ramoa said.

“Just let me get my things.”

Martin went quickly back inside to the kitchen and picked up his prepared bag for spooky stuff. It was mostly ready for dealing with fair folk, several clippings from the rowan tree in the back, a couple iron horseshoes that he’d had to order specially, and several of his own herbs. The nature of Mr. Ramao’s unease definitely suggested to Martin that this was a supernatural case and not a mundane issue. Not that Martin wouldn’t help if it was mundane but that would require some very different tools. Martin also grabbed his wallet, phone and keys, shoving them into his pockets. If he was going into town anyway, he may as well get some errands done.

Martin stepped outside, locking his door behind him. He could see Mr. Ramoa’s car parked just a little behind his own. “I’ll drive behind you into town.” Martin said.

Mr. Ramoa agreed and got into his car and started the drive into town with Martin tailing him. Once they arrived in Magnustown, Mr. Ramoa parked on Main Street and Martin after a minute searching, followed suit. Mr. Ramoa led Martin to a store. It was painted a dark brown on the outside and an overhang cast a shadow over the window and entrance, still it seemed a rather nice, if a bit old, antique’s shop. Going inside, Martin found it surprisingly well lit, with light streaming in through the window. It was dimmer the further into the store he walked. The shop was cluttered, almost over flowing but surprisingly easy to navigate. It bore the signs of a once tidy and well-maintained shop that was in the process of falling into disrepair.

“Um, so when did the first thing go missing?” Martin walked carefully through the shop. Martin was wary of knocking anything over.

“It’s hard to remember.” Mr. Ramoa said. “It all just blurs together.”

“Um, okay, then what was the first thing to go missing?” Martin asked, partly to just fill the silence.

“I… it was my pair of brogues.” Mr. Ramoa said.

“And where were they?” Martin asked, opening an antique cabinet.

“They were in my wardrobe. At least, I _think_ so.” Mr. Ramoa said hesitantly. “But maybe they were down in the shop. I wear-wore them to auctions and sometimes I have to get up early to travel to them so I keep clothes down here to not disturb David.”

“Right, right,” Martin said absently.

The strain of the disappearances had clearly been getting to the man, aside from his slightly dishevelled state, several of the antiques had a light coating of dust.

Dust that had been disturbed.

Martin leant over to examine the top of an old clock. It had a thicker layer of dust than most as it was right up against the wall and so Martin could get a better look at the disturbance. Small foot prints and skid marks, like something had been running along it. Martin followed the marks across the furniture, careful not to disturb the dust and lose the trail.

The footprints stopped at a china vase, intricately painted with blue lines. Martin didn’t know anything about antiques but it looked expensive. The top of the vase was completely clear of dust, as though it had been wiped clean. Martin examined the vase, inside and out. He picked it up very gently. The vase was smooth but was oddly heavy for empty china. Martin placed it back down.

“Um, okay.” Martin said aloud, turned to the other man. “Mr. Ramoa, would you have any milk upstairs?”

“Yes?” Mr. Ramoa was obviously confused.

“Right, right. Okay.” Martin clapped his hands together. “Can you get a small bowl and fill it with milk and… and bring it down here.” Martin tried to sound9 as he imagined people who definitely knew what they were doing did. Mr. Ramoa gave Martin a weird look but obediently went upstairs to his flat.

Martin went over to his bag, ruffling through it. He pulled out the rowan clippings, a horseshoe and a pair of red wool gloves that’d he’d knitted himself. Martin hesitated and then turned the gloves inside out. Never hurt to have multiple protections.

Martin walked over the shop door. There was a cute little bell that made Martin smile. He held up the horseshoe, maybe he could hang it over the bell until Mr. Ramoa could nail it to the wall above the door? He probably should’ve mentioned it ahead of time. “Oh, well.” Martin muttered as he hooked the horse shoe over it. He was running his fingers through the rowan leaves and contemplating where best to leave the them, when Mr. Ramoa came back downstairs with a small bowl of milk.

“What do you want with this?” Mr. Ramoa gestured down at the bowl with his head.

“Can you leave it beside the Chinese vase, please?” Martin said. Mr. Ramoa looked increasingly doubtful but he did as Martin asked. “Also, um, once I’m done, you’ll need to nail that,” Martin pointed at the horseshoe, “over the door. It’ll stop it coming back.”

“Stop what coming back?” Mr. Ramoa asked.

“Um, I’m not certain.” Martin said. He missed the Look Mr. Ramoa gave him at that. “Would you mind waiting, um, somewhere not here?”

Mr. Ramoa gave him a once over and then decided that this mad witch was still better than nothing. “Alright,” He left.

Martin settled down in an old armchair beside the vase, ready to wait. Luckily, he didn’t have to wait too long. He was just contemplating that he should’ve brought his knitting so he could start one of his commissions when a hand appeared.

It was long and white, with thin spidery fingers. It reached up out of the vase cautiously, almost as though it was tasting the air. It flexed gently then crept out over the lip of the vase, dipping down towards the bowl of milk. A second hand followed it. The two hands traced the bowl, testing its size. One delicate finger was dipped into the milk. The arms supporting the hands leaned out just a little further and Martin decided it was now or never.

He lunged forward, gloved hands gripping the thing’s wrists and then hauled upwards. The thing shrieked in anger and surprise as Martin pulled it out of the vase. It thrashed, bony elbows jutting into Martin and hands battering at his grip. Martin refused to loosen his hold and examined the creature he’d captured.

It was about two feet tall, although much of that went into its arms currently caught by Martin as it had a tiny chest and short legs. It was pure white and thin with a bulbous head and deeply unsettling, large yellow eyes. Its mouth was too wide and its teeth gleamed where it tried to bite Martin.

It was a boggart; Martin was certain now. When he’d heard Mr. Ramoa’s testimony he’d suspected as much. Boggarts were ‘mischievous’ fairies. Martin would very much like to know who decided to classify _any_ fairies as mischievous, malicious would have been more accurate. Still, in the grand scheme of things, boggarts were more a nuisance than a true threat. They tended to stick to bogs or moors but if they were in houses, they could be very destructive. Spoiling food, breaking furniture and stealing things. This particular boggart seemed very inclined towards the latter option.

“Stop that.” Martin told it firmly. The boggart did not stop hissing at him. Martin was rather put in mind of a cat. “You are better than this.”

“ _Better?_ ” It cried. “Better than what. Better than my nature?”

Martin gathered himself. “Better than throwing a tantrum. I just want a conversation.”

“No!” the boggart whined. “I won’t, I won’t.”

Martin paused. “Alright then.” And he marched outside dragging the hissing creature with him. Martin made sure to firmly close the door behind him. “Now then, you’ve been behaving very poorly.”

The boggart showed its teeth and Martin glowered at it. “You are going to leave this house, leave the men who live here alone and leave my domain entirely. This is my patch; you do not attack the people under my care. _Understand?_ ”

“Why?” the boggart snarled. “You won’t do anything.”

“If you don’t leave this town and find a nice, I don’t know, bog, I will,” Martin paused, he hadn’t quite decided upon a threat, “I will _learn your name_.”

The boggart squealed in fear. Names were deeply important to fairies in a way quite alien to humans. Fairies have their own names that they would _never_ tell as knowing something’s name gave you power over it, so most of the lords and ladies went by titles. This lowly boggart wouldn’t have a title and all Martin would need to do to learn its name was trick a different fairy into telling him. Martin honestly wasn’t sure if he would be able to such a thing but as long as the boggart believed him capable of it, it ought to work.

The boggart squirmed trying to get out of Martin hold. “Please do not seek to find my name.”

“I will let you go,” Martin said firmly, “and you will leave this town, never harass any of the people under my care… and return the items you stole from this house.”

“Fine, fine. I agree to your demands.” The boggart agreed. “The deal is set.”

Martin nodded “The deal is set.” and released the creature. It took off like a spooked rabbit, bolting out of the town faster than its short legs should carry it.

Martin turned and went back inside the shop. Mr. Ramoa was staring at him from where he was standing at the back of the shop. He must’ve seen everything that had happened through the shop window. Martin gave him a small smile and went over to the vase. He reached inside it and pulled out a pair of shoes, then a book, a pair of earrings. Again and again, Martin put his hand into the vase and pulled out Mr. Ramoa’s lost things. Mr. Ramoa looked like he could weep with relief.

“It’s… it’s really done now?” he whispered. “It’s gone now?”

“Yes,” Martin confirmed. “You’d, um, had a boggart living out of this vase and it decided to steal stuff from you but-but it should be gone now. If you want to, um, make sure nothing like that happens again, the horseshoe will act as a protection against the fair folk coming into your house. You can also use this.” Martin handed him the rowan clippings. “Just put them over doorways, windows, that sort of thing.”

“Thank you,” Mr. Ramoa’s voice broke as he said it moving forward as though to embrace Martin before thinking better off it. Martin spread his arms as an offer which Mr. Ramoa took. Martin held the poor man as he shook. “I can’t begin to- thank you, thank you.” He wept.

Martin felt a little awkward. It hadn’t been a truly difficult case to deal with and the man’s gratitude felt inordinate. Still, for someone unused to dealing with fairies and especially anyone who didn’t know properly about them, didn’t know how to protect yourself or even know if you were under-attack, it must feel like a truly insurmountable foe. Mr. Ramoa must have thought he was going mad. Martin couldn’t help but pity the man and it only served to confirm his resolve to protect his domain properly. He had to do it because he knew what to do.

Eventually, Mr. Ramoa pulled himself together and stepped back from Martin. “Mr. Blackwood, I cannot thank you enough. If you ever need anything, anything at all, please tell me. I will be more than happy to help. Wait, actually—” he cut himself off and hurried over to his bag. He pulled out a chequebook and hastily began writing out a cheque.

“Oh no, Mr. Ramoa, you don’t need- it’s really alright.” Martin stumbled over his words.

“I insist.” Mr. Ramoa said, pressing the cheque into Martin’s hand.

“Well,” Martin said hesitantly, he felt bad taking payment. It wasn’t something he’d done for money, it was a duty more than anything else. On the other hand, he did need to buy groceries and while he wasn’t in dire straits, a knitting business reliant on delivering handmade, time-consuming goods wasn’t exactly the most stable income. “If you insist.”

“I do.” Mr. Ramoa said. “Anything you need, anything at all.”

“You too!” Martin said and then immediately wanted to die. “I-I mean, if you ever need any help with anything or just a cup of tea or anything then, um, please don’t hesitate to pop in.”

Mr. Ramoa smiled at Martin in gratitude and Martin bobbed nervously. “I’ll, erm, just be going now. Couple of errands to do, you know how it is.”

“Right, right yes,” Mr. Ramoa agreed. “Oh, don’t forget your bag.” He picked up Martin’s bag from where he’d discarded it on the floor.

“Oh, yes, thank you.” Martin smiled again and then left the shop, Mr. Ramoa waving at him as went. 

He decided to now get along with his list of errands. Martin ambled into various shops, picking up the new lightbulbs and then got distracted by scented candles. He went into the post office to have a quick chat with Rosie and collect the special wool he’d ordered. Lastly, Martin headed off to the library. He had decided to take Tim’s advice and use the library’s recourses. While he didn’t need to research anything about witchcraft in the same way Tim did, reading up on the area could still prove useful. And Martin had faint, fond memories of his mother taking him to the library in their village when Martin had been very young.

Martin pushed open the library door and entered the slightly dim building. The library was exactly what Martin had been expecting. It was just such a typical, underfunded library. The walls are an off-white and the shelves are all painted the same uninspired grey. The books were stacked neatly and there were slightly peeling stickers denoting the shelves’ numbers. There was a worn desk directly opposite the entrance, allowing the occupant a good view of anyone entering or leaving. A library worker was sat at the desk, consulting the computer.

As Martin walked up to the desk, he realised that the worker was the man Martin had seen his first day. He was dressed neatly in a shirt, vest and, oddly enough, a scarf around his neck. He looked up from the computer he’d been working on to stare at Martin. He had such long eyelashes. It was rare to see men with such long, pretty eyelashes. Maybe it was just because his hair was so dark, most people have long eyelashes but they end in a lighter colour like blonde so they’re hard to see but this man had such dark, rich hair. His eyes were so bright too, oddly reflective in a way that made them shine under his eyelashes and they were looking right at Martin. Because Martin was just staring at him.

“Um, hi! I’m Martin- Martin K. Blackwood. I’m the new witch, um, yes?” Martin decided that this was the moment God should’ve killed him. Just send a bolt of lightning down through the library’s roof and completely smite him. It would probably hurt less than the sheer humiliation he was currently feeling.

“Jon.” The man said, nodding in a poor impression of congeniality. “You give everyone you just met your whole name?”

“Um…” Martin said intelligently.

“Rather unwise for a witch to do.” He said coolly. Martin felt even more like an idiot. This whole interaction was a disaster and it hadn’t even been a minute yet.

“I, um, well you’re not a f—one of them.” Martin was too flustered. He was _better_ than this.

“You didn’t know that.” Jon pointed out. Martin privately thought that was a level of extreme paranoia. There was no way to function properly in society if you worked under the assumption that anyone you met could be a fairy. Still, Jon was right. As a witch he’d be the most at risk for that kind of deception and it was his job to not fall for it.

“So, what are you here for?” Jon asked.

“Um, what?” Martin said, having zoned out again. God, he wasn’t normally this spacey.

“You’re at the desk.” Jon pointed out. “Presumably, you wanted something or are you just here to waste my time?”

Okay, so Jon was a bit of a dick. Good to know. Martin decided to simply power through the conversation like a derailed train. “I was here to register with the library.”

Jon looked at him as though it was the most banal thing Martin could’ve possibly said then sighed and pulled out a form from his immaculate filing system. “Fill out this and then provide some ID.”

“Coolio.” Martin said taking the form.

Jon’s cool gaze flicked down to his hands and his eyes widened. “We have a bathroom you can wash up in.”

“What?”

“Your hands.” Jon said. “They have dirt on them.”

Martin stared down at his hands and could feel the heat in his cheeks. His hands still had soil and mud in their creases from his gardening. He could’ve slapped himself. He hadn’t had a chance to clean up after doing gardening before Mr. Ramoa called. “Oh, whoops, I didn’t notice?”

“Right.” Jon said, turning back to his computer.

Martin hurried into the bathroom to wash his hands in embarrassment. The water was cold no matter how long Martin let the hot tap run, but he just sighed and let his hands go numb under the stream. He scrubbed away the earth with the old bar of soap until he was confident that his hands were suitably clean. He did feel a bit foolish not only in having dirty hands but also in letting himself be so thoroughly cowed by some library worker. Even if he was a very cute library worker. 

Martin dried his hands on the toilet paper and strode out. He went back up to Jon’s desk and picked up the form before heading over to a nearby desk. Martin filled it out methodically, home address, phone number, email, all standard stuff. The fluorescent lights flickered slightly and Jon’s typing echoed through the books.

“Right, um, here it is.” Martin handed the form to Jon.

Jon’s eyes flicked down, scouring the page for any possible mistakes when he found none he nodded vaguely. “And some proof of identification?”

“Will this do?” Martin held up his driver’s license.

“Yes.” Jon said with a tone that showed what he really wanted to say was ‘Obviously’. And yes, Martin knew driver’s licenses were one of the main forms of IDs, but he didn’t want to just assume. He was all flustered. “Your library card will be ready in between 5 to 10 working days. We’ll email you when it’s ready and you can come in to collect it.”

“Right! Thank you.” Oh no, Martin, too enthusiastic, bring it down a notch. “So, um,” Martin coughed into his hand, “do you have any particular recommendations?”

Jon looked at him a tad too intensely for it to be considered normal and Martin felt _something._ “What area are you interested in?”

“Erm, well Tim, he’s my friend? He said that libraries have a good collection on witchcraft and general magic. But also, anything on local history? Um, a lot of local history will have stories that are just like ‘Oh and then Mary was taken away because she was so good at playing the pipes’ and while the stories tend to have, um, drifted a bit from what really happened, they’re still a good source on just what dangers there are in an area.” Martin rambled.

“Very well, the history section is just over there,” Jon pointed and Martin had to crane his neck to see the shelves Jon was pointing at. “It’s—wait, do you know the Dewey Decimal system?”

“Yes,” Martin said a bit irritated at the condescension.

“Right, well, you should be able to find it but I can show you our collection on local stories and historical accounts.” Jon shifted out from behind the desk and led Martin over. As Martin walked behind the man, he got a better look at him. He was built like a bird, maybe a crane, all high bones and long limbs. He was completely covered in clothes; the only skin Martin could actually see was on his hands and face even though it was rather warm. He walked in something between a stride and a scurry, a combination Martin hadn’t even known was possible.

Jon stopped over by the shelves and began gesturing to various books, taking some of them out and explaining them but the words would not reach Martin’s brain properly. He was too distracted by how alight Jon’s face was. The care he felt for the books clear and honest. “…much of these books are centred on Jonah Magnus and the Magnus estate more generally because _apparently_ the only interesting part of history is the bits that happened to the rich, white men. These are at least marginally more interesting than the other biographies and what not, as it does have a compilation of his research which I think would be of some relevance to your other request, Martin.”

“Oh, what?” Martin snapped back to reality.

Jon blinked at Martin before scowling. “Jonah Magnus had done extensive research into the fair folk before his ‘mysterious disappearance’ which is the kind of thing you were asking for, correct?”

“Yes, something like that.” Martin said weakly.

“We don’t actually have his research obviously,” Jon face twisted as he said that, clearly this was something of a sore spot. “the estate’s kept it, and sometimes it gets loaned at to other museums. But we do have copies and summaries of much of what he wrote.”

“Oh good, yes, that’s interesting.” Martin said looking at Jon’s eyes.

“Obviously, though, you’ll only be able to take books out once you have your card but you’re free to look around now.” Jon said briskly before dumping the books into Martin’s arms.

“Right, thanks.” Martin said because he didn’t know what else to do. He then spent the next hour at one of the library desks supposedly reading while sneaking glances at Jon as the man went did his librarian duties brusquely. At one point a woman in a hijab came in, exchanged a few words with him before giving him a cup of something warm and walking out again. Martin wondered if Jon liked tea.

Eventually, the responsible part of Martin’s brain pointed out that Martin should probably get on with his day and stop ogling a random library worker. Was Martin being creepy? Is this stalking? Oh God, if he has to ask that then he probably is being creepy. He needed to calm down. Like right now. Martin stood up too suddenly then tried to compensate for that by walking too casually out the door. So, Martin probably just failed the ‘acting like a normal person’ test, in fairness he had probably failed that test as soon as he walked in the library. The thought was not particularly comforting.

When Martin sat down in his car, slumped forward to put his face in his hands. This at least had the benefit of hiding how red his face was. Unfortunately, it also caused his hat to slide askew on his head. Martin straightened up and took the hat off (the car ceiling wasn’t high enough for it) and drove back home, trying not to feel completely embarrassed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, Martin goes to a cafe and gets questionable dating advice
> 
> Please leave kudos or a comment if you enjoyed!


	4. Chapter 4

Dusk was just falling in Magnuston when Martin came in. He had a couple hours to kill before his coven meeting. Tim had texted him, advising Martin to bring an alcohol of choice to the meeting. And then he sent a winkie face. Martin had smiled and only blushed a little. Tim had been texting Martin intermittently, mostly memes but Martin could hardly say the attention wasn’t nice even if it was platonic. It was probably platonic. Martin was just lonely. Was it so wrong that he wanted someone to hold? Martin’s mind ambled to Jon and he shook himself. He didn’t know the man; it was wrong to fantasise about him in any way.

Regardless, Martin had come into town to buy his cider for the night meeting and just kill some time. After stopping off in Tesco (and getting IDed, that was embarrassing), Martin went into the post office to drop off some commissions.

“Martin, hello, dear!” Rosie greeted him as he stepped inside.

“Hi, Rosie.” Martin lifted up the bag he’d placed his knitting in. “I have some packages to send off.”

“Of course, of course. Pass them here, dear, I’ll look after them.” Rosie held a hand out over the counter and Martin handed her each piece individually, he carefully explained where they were going. Most where within the UK but there was one off to the Continent and two for the US.

“Very international, Martin.” Rosie said as she wrapped the scarf, knitted with protection charms, that was due for Spain up in bubble wrap. “You know I went to Spain a while back.”

“Was it nice?” Martin asked, he’d never had the chance to travel properly.

“Yes, yes,” Rosie said. “Lovely trip, gorgeous weather. Not like we’ll be having.” She laughed. “Ah, I went with my fiancé. Gosh, that was a long time ago.”

“Oh, I didn’t know you were married!” Martin said, excited.

“Oh, I’m not,” Rosie chuckled, “no, no. It didn’t work out between us.”

“I’m sorr—"

“Don’t apologise, dear,” Rosie dismissed him. “These things happen. Although, speaking of fiancés, have you heard about Naomi Herne and Evan’s engagement?”

“No, I have not heard about it.” Martin refrained from mentioning that he didn’t know these people.

“I’m so happy for them.” Rosie continued. “Naomi was always a bit shy but Evan has really brought her out of her shell. He’s such a nice lad. I’m not sure where he’s from, he just wandered into town a few years ago.”

“Well,” Martin said, “I’m glad that they’re happy together.” Even though he didn’t know them, he could appreciate the happiness they must have even if it felt like a pointed contrast to Martin’s own singlehood. Martin pushed the thought away, it was hardly a productive line of thought. “I mean, I haven’t met them.”

“They’re absolutely darling.” Rosie said. “I’m sure once Evan meets you, you’ll get on like a house on fire. Lovely man.”

“I’m sure.” Martin said as her paid her. “Thank you for the help Rosie.”

“Not a bother, dear, not a bother.” Rosie said briskly. “I’m just doing my job. Be sure to pop on by again. I’m always ready for a bit of a chat.”

“Thanks, Rosie.” Martin smiled at her before leaving the post office.

He thought he may as well continue to explore some of the little cafes that were strewn across the town. He’d been making an effort to try out as many of them as possible, try to get to know the workers but most cafes so far had been aimed at attracting tourists or were simply brisk with him. Not unfriendly, but hardly hubs of community. Martin wasn’t sure what he’d expected, most people didn’t come to a café to gossip or meet people. He’d probably have more luck in the pub honestly but something was repelling Martin away from it. The general atmosphere, maybe? It looked dingy and old, ill cared for.

Martin walked to the next café on his list, Brew-witched. It was painted a dark green and there were a collection of tables and chairs strewn outside. An umbrella was set up to either provide shade or direct rain into the faces of half the costumers. Martin stepped inside. The place was quiet but not oppressive. A woman was in the corner reading a book and there were a pair of students on what seemed to be a date, a worker was bustling around. The furniture was all mismatched, few tables had a set of chairs that came from the same set. The walls were covered in photos and books. Someone had stuck a series of handwritten poems up. Probably original work.

Martin walked up to the counter. A blackboard was nailed on the wall behind it with the café’s menu written on it in white and green chalk. Behind the counter sat a hijabi woman reading a book, Martin thought she was the woman who visited the library but he hadn’t gotten a good look at the woman’s face and it would be rude to assume they were the same just because they both wore hijabs. That would be lowkey racist, wouldn’t it?

“Hello.” Martin said, to stop his overthinking.

The woman looked up at him, eyes widening slightly upon seeing his hat. She put a book mark in her book and closed it, giving Martin her full attention. “So, you’re the witch.”

“Um, yes. I’m called Martin Blackwood and I am the, um, witch.” Martin extended his hand for a handshake. The woman looked at it for a second before taking it.

“Basira Hussain. I own this place.”

“You have a nice café.” Martin told her. “I like all the books.”

“Thank you.” Basira said. “Do you want to order anything?”

“Right. Yes. I’ll, um, have a breakfast tea?” Martin said scanning the menu as fast as he could.

Basira nodded and began to prepare his teapot. “You go take a seat, I’ll bring it to you.”

“Thank you.” Martin awkwardly bobbed then headed over to the table by the window. The chair was squishy and sagged under Martin’s weight. After a minute, Basira walked over and placed a small teapot, a cup and a small jug of milk on the table before sitting down opposite Martin.

“So,” Basira said eyeing Martin, “what brought you to Magnuston?”

“Oh well, no particular reason.” Martin said. “I needed to move out of my teacher’s domain and there was an opening here, the cottage rent is cheap and I saw an ad for a coven online and I just thought, why not?”

“There was… an ad for a coven?” Basira asked, disbelieving.

“Yeah, I think it was Tim, Tim Stoker from Conventry, it was just a listing for any witches in the areas to form a coven.” Martin poured the tea into his cup.

“I thought witch covens were formed with more… I don’t know,” Basira shrugged, “mysticism.”

Martin chuckled. “No, as far as I’m aware there’s forces of destiny or anything to bring a coven together. No magic crystals or chants, just whoever’s in the area.” He shrugged as he dropped two sugar cubes into his tea.

“And you moved specifically to be in the area?” Basira asked, face still.

“Like I said, I had to go somewhere and here seemed as good as any other area.” Martin stirred the tea, blew on it and took a sip. “It’s really not that unusual for witches to move around. I know the concept is that they’re deeply entrenched in wherever they live but people have to move for all kinds of reasons, just because you’re a witch, doesn’t mean you have to stay in the same town your whole life. If there’s already a witch in the area then really, you’re just redundant.”

“You make it sound like you got fired from your hometown.” Basira said.

Martin smiled weakly, “Nothing so dramatic.” Annabelle had just one day looked at him and told Martin that he didn’t have anything else to gain from being under her and he should start looking for his own domain. Annabelle for all her manipulations, was a very blunt person. She helped him look into where he should go, although she kept emphasising that it was wherever felt right for Martin, wherever his instincts led him. Martin as always, felt rather lacking in that department and chose Magnuston for the rather mundane reasons he’d outlined to Basira.

“What made you decide to become a witch?” Basira asked.

“This is starting to sound like a job interview,” Martin chuckled nervously hoping for Basira to also find the joke funny. After a second, she gave him a small smile and Martin decided to take that victory. “I don’t really think there was any one thing… I like helping people, taking care of them, just protecting and serving the community and well, that’s what a witch is all about.”

“Is it?” Basira murmured.

“Yes.” Martin said firmly. “I know there’s a lot of stereotypes of witches being all,” Martin waved his hands in an evil and spooky gesture, “but that’s not really accurate to most. We’re the ones who stop people from walking in the woods.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” Basira said, inscrutable. She stood up. “You can have that tea on the house, in the future you can have a discount when ordering here.”

“Oh, thank you, it’s really not necessary, you don’t have to—” Martin rambled before Basira cut him off with a raised hand.

“It’s no problem.”

“Oh, well thank you.” Martin said still feeling very taken aback, he wasn’t used to people just giving him things.

“I have to go take care of something now but Timothy will be able to look after you if you need anything else.” Basira nodded over at the other café worker currently wiping down a table. Timothy looked up and gave Martin a quick nod and a smile.

“Oh, um, alright then.” Martin smiled at Basira who didn’t return it, already walking off to the back room. Martin settled back against his chair. It was a rather squishy, overstuffed chair and he almost felt like he was sinking into it. It was a rather nice feeling. Martin sipped more of his tea and let his eyes roam over the wall decorations. The poetry was mostly rather good although ‘Revolutions’ was truly weird, something about people without faces on a merry-go-round. It was bizarre. Even more bizarre was the eye someone had scrawled over part of it.

The photos on the other hand were rather nice. They were mostly of the town but they seemed to be from different time periods, a rather large collection of black and white picture of Magnuston were scattered across the walls. Then there were pictures of what Martin presumed were costumers, smiling and toasting to the camera. Again, these were all different ages, several even being old black and white polaroids. Martin could spot a younger Basira in a couple of the photos and he even thought he might’ve seen a picture of Jon.

Martin decided to instead distract himself with one of the books. They were as eclectic as the photos, some practically sparkling from how new they were, others had cracked spines and yellowed pages and were from the 60s, there were even one or two books that looked more like they belonged in a museum. Their contents were just as varied, generally skewing towards non-fiction however there were also several fantasy books and, to Martin’s delight, several poetry anthologies.

“Hey, do you need a hand with anything?” Martin turned around to see Timothy standing behind him, tray tucked under his arm. Martin could see his name badge clearly, Timothy Hodge.

“Oh, I was just looking at your collection.” Martin said. “Do you have any recommendations?”

“I don’t really know, Basira mostly looks after the books, they’re not really my thing.” He shrugged. “Most of them have been here longer than I have.”

“Have you been here long?” Martin asked.

“Longer than I wanted.” Timothy muttered. “But yeah, you alright?”

“I think so, thanks for asking.” Martin said.

Timothy bent down and pulled out a box from the bottom shelf. “I think these are Basira’s favourites so they’re probably alright.”

“Are you sure it’s okay? I can just look through?” Martin asked, cautious. They just seemed like they weren’t for the general café public.

“It’s in the café, I’d say it’s free for the taking.” Timothy gave Martin a lopsided grin. Martin nodded gratefully and began pursing through the books. Timothy wandered off, satisfied with a job done.

Martin flicked through Basira’s collection quickly, it was rather similar to the rest of the books, an unusual mixture of books from different topics of study. Martin moved from ‘Introduction to Alchemy’ to a book about trauma and healing and then to ‘Hauntings in the Early 20th Century’. It was rather fascinating just how wide Basira’s interests seemed to be.

Still, it felt a bit personal rifling through her collection. Martin left the box alone and simply took one of the poetry anthologies off the higher shelfs. He settle back into the squishy chair and contented himself with an hour of tea and poetry in this cosy café before going to his coven meeting.

In the back room, Basira watched Martin through the gap in the door as he sat there reading. She kept her voice low as she talked into her phone. “Daisy, I’ve met the witch. I couldn’t get a good read on him. He seems pretty harmless. But obviously…”

“That doesn’t mean anything.” Daisy agreed. Her voice came through the phone slightly distorted. “Do you think it’s worth keeping an eye on him?”

“I don’t think it would hurt.” Basira cast another look at the witch. “He’s not what I expected.” She kept watching even as Martin left.

…

Martin left Brew-witched contented. It was quite a nice little place. The staff was very friendly even if he got the sense that Basira was assessing him. It had been a little uncomfortable being under her scrutiny. Martin felt like he’d been given a test and he had no idea whether he’s passed or not. Still, it was nice of her to give him the tea for free and the café itself was lovely. If he went back, he’d have to try one of the little cakes they sold.

Martin was pulled out of his thoughts by the sight of Jon across the street, outside the recently locked up library. He seemed to be trying to lift a heavy box with little success judging by how much his legs were trembling. Martin hesitated for a moment, indecision holding him still. Would it be weird to offer to help? They weren’t really friends. On the other hand, Martin would probably offer to help anyone he saw struggling with a heavy load even if they were a stranger. Martin stepped forward to help buoyed up by a temporary confidence. “Jon, would you like a hand?”

Jon spun around with too much force and overbalanced, the heavy box dragging his arms as his fingers failed. Martin made a desperate lunge and managed to grab the box before Jon completely dropped it. He realised that Jon’s hands were still on the box and his own were brushing up against them. Martin blushed violently, feeling the heat radiate from his face. Jon mercifully didn’t seem to notice. He’d inhaled sharply at the touch of Martin’s hands, tensing up as though in fear but when nothing happened, he relaxed.

“I am perfectly alright managing it myself.” Jon said with too much dignity considering he could barely hold the box.

“It’s really no problem.” Martin took most of the box’s weight in his hands. And yes, it was very heavy. “What do you even have in here?”

“It’s none of your—” Jon started then breathed out, seeming realise how unreasonably defensive he was being. “It’s just some books. For a personal project.”

“Oh? Anything interesting?” Martin asked.

“Not according to most people.” Jon muttered. “Look, if you’re offering,” he assessed Martin, “I would appreciate the help.”

“Okay.” Martin took the box from Jon, shifting it to a position easier to carry. “Where am I taking this to?”

“Just… just my flat.” Jon seemed to already be regretting this decision. “Follow me.” Jon lead Martin off down a side street, stopping quickly at a door squeezed between two buildings. He unlocked it and Martin followed him inside to a narrow hallway and a set of stairs. There was a door on the wall opposite the stairs but Jon ignored it and went up the stairs. Martin steadied himself before beginning the upward climb. The box really was very heavy and the stairs were steep. Martin’s muscles ached. He sought some kind of distraction.

“You can tell me what the project is, if you want to? I’m a little curious.” Martin puffed.

“It’s just research. Pleasure reading, I suppose you could call it.” Jon said.

“Non-fiction pleasure reading?” Martin asked. He was a little unfamiliar with the concept. If he was going to read to unwind, he generally liked a nice poetry collection or a cosy romance book.

“It’s just some chemistry.” Jon said, he seemed a bit embarrassed.

“What kind of chemistry?” Martin could admit to having never been particularly interested in science but there was something about Jon’s embarrassment that he understood. He understood being interested in something and no one else caring or wanting to listen.

“Emulsifiers.” Jon blurted out.

“Emulsifiers?”

“They’re also called emulgents. They can cause two immiscible liquids to mix. So, if you have a polar and non-polar liquid in a mixture, they will naturally separate and enter a two-phase system. The most commonly used example of this is oil and water but it’s also common in a lot of foods. An emulsifier can increase the kinetic stability of a substance. They tend to have both polar and non-polar parts, which allows it to bond with both substances. Like I said, they’re very common in foods or other household things, the best example are egg yolks or cleaning detergents. Strictly speaking, this is where soap gets its cleaning properties from.” Jon said this all very quickly and precisely as though giving a lecture. While his voice was just as clipped as usual, something warm entered it. A kind of excitement of being able to share something.

“That’s interesting.” Martin said. “So, they’re really common?”

“Exceedingly so. Most seemingly esoteric scientific things are actually everywhere.” Jon said, reaching the top of the stairs. “Like molecular bonding, that’s the mechanic behind pencils. The lead particles bond to the paper. The Soviet Union had their cosmonauts use pencils in space because the lack of gravity stopped pens from working properly. The ink couldn’t come out correctly.”

“Is chemistry a particular point of interest for you?” Martin set the box down on the landing and stretched out his sore arms.

“No, not particularly.” Jon unlocked to door on the landing. He turned back to Martin, looking him in the eye. “I just think it’s important to learn as much about the world. There is so much knowledge on how the world works just sitting right there, why wouldn’t you want to learn it all? Knowledge for knowledge’s sake may not be the most interesting motivation but there’s just such a joy to it.” Jon’s eyes lit up as he spoke, his hands were gesturing, he was truly passionate about this. His face was so earnest and a true love for learning shone through.

“Wow.” Martin’s mouth said. Martin’s brain caught up with his mouth and immediately started panicking. “That’s, um, yeah, that’s very cool. A good hobby.” Martin cringed at how false those words sounded. Why was it so hard to be sincere?

“Right.” Jon said, closing off again.

“It’s just,” Martin said, desperate to keep the connection going, “I like art. Um, poetry really.”

“Poetry.”

“Yeah,” Martin nodded, “I really love poetry. It, well, it can communicate things so well, things that get lost normally. I think it’s like, um, the compliment of science? If science is trying to outline the world logically, then poetry is, well it’s humanity. It’s messy and complex but beautiful.”

“I’ve never liked poetry.” Jon said bluntly. Martin died a little on the inside, feeling embarrassment crash through him. What was he doing talking about the value of poetry? Martin was so fixated on his own humiliation that he missed how embarrassed Jon looked at his own brusqueness.

“Oh, okay then.” Martin eventually managed.

“You can just leave the box inside.” Jon said awkwardly as he opened the door. Martin went inside and saw a hall desk Jon was gesturing to. He deposited the thing amongst the clutter. He felt a bit bad crushing some of the pages, but in his defence, the whole desk was covered in papers and books and pens.

“Meant to get around to cleaning that.” Jon muttered vaguely. “But, thank you for the help, Martin.”

“It was no problem.” Martin squeaked, a smile blossoming on his face. “I’m always happy to help.”

Jon nodded vaguely and glanced back to the entrance. Martin took the hint and floated downstairs.

…

In the forest, there ran rivers which merged into the Conventry river. They were gathered by one of these tributaries. The hill’s slope was steep, so the stream became a small waterfall, crashing down to a pool below the overhang the coven was meeting at. Apparently, it was a popular spot for photos during the day but at night it was totally deserted. There was a gap in the canopy that let in the moonlight, making the forest surprisingly bright. “Welcome,” Tim boomed, “to the second annual coven meeting!” He flung his hands out dramatically.

“Annual?” Sasha pointed out Tim’s mistake.

“Sasha, darling, dear friend,” Tim turned to her, “do not point out my cock ups.”

“I just hadn’t realised a year had passed already.” Sasha said. “How time flies.”

“Oh, shut up, it was a mistake.” Tim threw his hands in the air. “I get no appreciation in this household even after all the work I do.”

“I didn’t realise you were doing a lot of work.” Martin said and then immediately panicked, what if he wasn’t at that level with Tim yet for joking? What if he’d offended him? Oh God, he hoped he hadn’t just offen—

“Martin, the betrayal!” Tim said dramatically.

“We’ve got to keep you on your toes, Tim.” Sasha said.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Tim said. “you’ve got to admit, this is pretty cool.” Tim gestured vaguely at the moonlight lighting the waterfall.

“Yeah, it is pretty cool.” Martin agreed and stared up at the moon.

Several hours later Tim was trying to convince Sasha and Martin to skinny dip with him.

“It’s not even deep enough for skinny dipping.” Sasha pointed out; her cheeks flushed from alcohol.

“You don’t know that.” Tim tried to argue.

“It’s funny, you know.” Martin interrupted. “I thought covens were, you know, all serious business and all that but both of our meetings we’ve just ended up getting pissed.”

“Fuck being serious. There’s already enough of that.” Tim said and then took a swig of whiskey.

“I mean, we should probably start taking these meetings a bit more seriously.” Sasha said. “We should be talking about issues, you know. Magic and the good neighbours and our domains and all that.”

“Do you want to start then Sasha?” Martin said. “Tell us all your magical problems.”

Sasha stared at him for a long minute before collapsing backwards. “No, I really don’t.” She swirled her wine. “Like I could tell you about having to get Lydia Halligan away from Michael before it could make her too lost but you don’t really want to hear about that, do you? Had to make her put her jumper on inside-out.” Sasha’s voice trailed off.

“Yeah, let’s not.” Tim said. “There’s more fun things to talk about. What’s your love life like anyway, Sasha?”

“ _Okay_ , we are not talking about that. Anyway, Martin, Tim’s always off wooing people,” Sasha leaned forward, elbows on her knees, ignoring Tim. “Anyone special in your life, Martin?”

“Oh, what?” Martin started in surprise, spilling some of his drink. “Oh, no— I wouldn’t, I mean- in this moment- I’m busy- why would you ask, I mean.”

“He does!” shrieked Tim in such delight he slipped off his seat. This did little to dissuade him. “Spill!”

“Yes, Martin, you must spill!” Sasha said.

“I am not,” Martin started and stopped to compose himself. “I am not dating anyone.”

“That doesn’t mean there’s no one!” Tim crowed. “You have your eye on someone! You do, you do!”

“That’s- that’s stupid.” Martin slurred. “Emotions are stupid.”

“Martin, you—” Sasha paused, putting a hand over her mouth as she burped. “Martin, you have to tell us.

“No,” Martin moaned. “It’s dumb.”

“Tell us, tell us, tell us,” Tim began chanting only to have Sasha join in between muffled giggles.

“Alright, alright,” Martin waved them down, Tim yelled in success while Sasha looked eager for the gossip. “It’s, um, oh lord, this is dumb.”

“Martin,” Sasha said very seriously, “there is no such thing as dumb feelings. All feelings in romance and love and all that, they’re all completely fair. Unless you’re Tim.”

Martin ignored Tim’s muffled ‘hey’ and smiled. “Well, okay. So, his name’s Jon. He works in the library in Magnuston. He’s, um, quite thin and… and very cute.” Martin sighed wistfully. “He’s kind of mean though. He’s a meanie.”

“Jon…” Tim scrunched up his face in alcohol hampered thought. “Not, Jonathon Sims?”

“Maybe? I never got his full name.” Martin mumbled.

“He’s… kinda short but like, gives off taller person vibes. Wears way too many layers in the middle of summer?” Tim held his hand up helpfully at the height he was picturing Jonathon Sims. Unfortunately, Tim was still sprawled on the ground so his hand was only about four feet off the ground. Martin was fairly certain Jon wasn’t that short.

“Maybe?” Martin said. “He’s got really nice eyes.”

“Wait, here we go!” Sasha shoved her phone at Martin. “Is this him?” Martin looked at the photo that seemed to be from Instagram. A black woman was taking an enthusiastic selfie with a rather disgruntled Jon.

“Yes, that’s him.” Martin said. “How did you find this so fast?”

“I’m magical.” Sasha said. “It would’ve been faster if he had any social media.”

“Did you seriously just use witchcraft to find a picture of Martin’s crush?” Tim giggled.

“It was important!” Sasha puffed out her cheeks. “Anyway, I know Jon. It’s just hard to find pictures of him.”

“He is a little cryptid man.” Tim nodded. “But yeah, Martin, fuckin- fucking shoot your shot.”

“Er…” Martin tried to come up with a response.

“Go get you man!” Tim yelled.

“Martin, Martin,” Sasha gestured to get his attention. “Ignore Tim, he’s drunk,” (“Aren’t we all drunk?”) “listen to me. You should definitely try to woo him.”

“Did you seriously just say ‘woo’?” Tim asked.

“It is- it is a valid word use, choice… whatever. It makes sense.” Sasha said.

“I don’t know. I don’t even really know him.” Martin said.

“No! No yearning.” Tim said. “I refuse to let another friend _yearn_. You have to go up to Jon and get your flirt on.”

“Get my flirt on?” Martin asked. Even inebriated he doubted how successful that would be.

“Yeah! Get your flirt on.” Tim said. “You just go into the library or whatever, all confidence and you smile at him and say something, you know, funny and charming. Something to make him completely fall for you and _then--_ “

“Tim, did you just claim your pick-up lines are funny and charming?” Sasha interrupted.

“Yeah, I don’t know about this…” Martin muttered.

“Martin, ignore all of Tim’s flirting advice but do make a move.” Sasha turned to Martin. “Just invite him to coffee even just as friends. Something small. I know you can do it.”

“You can totally date him, Martin!” Tim said. “Trust me, being a witch does not hurt your chances.”

“I- you know what?” Martin stood up. “I can do it. I can totally ask him out.”

Tim and Sasha cheered, raising their drinks in celebration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter! When I went back to edit this, I saw that I used the word 'rather' at least twelve times which was a lot. Also Jon, that isn't how you socialise. Everyone in this fic, is a disaster.
> 
> Next chapter, Martin goes for a walk, finds something strange and picks up his library card.
> 
> Please leave kudos or a comment if you enjoyed!


	5. Chapter 5

Martin settled onto his couch and pulled out wool. He ran his hands through it, simply feeling the texture of it, its strength and tension. He wound it round and around his fingers, just letting its natural twists and bends form. The wool was good to stretch, it bounced back nicely when he let go after pulling it taught. He fiddled with it, twists and loops and circles and knots, over and over in his hands. Martin stared straight ahead as he worked, hands working independently to his eyes. It was all about instincts, the subconscious push and pull that guided his fingers.

Martin stared through the open attic window down the sprawling hills, littered with trees. Magnuston was clearly visible. Martin could see the church spire above the roofline. There was a small stream of smoke coming from the town, impossible to see who was making the bonfire. The sun was bright only blocked by a few large, curling clouds. Martin could imagine that a group of kids were cycling out of the town to take advantage of the sun, their parents’ reminders to stick to the official paths still ringing in their ears. Elsewhere a woman was hanging laundry up outside while talking to her neighbour. A man was walking his dog and a delivery truck was being unstacked. People were just generally bustling around, in and out of houses and shops and outside on dirt tracks and even some tarmac paths. Inside the library, Jon was managing the return cart. He was stacking the books onto shelves, squinting gently at their number before slotting it in neatly. He took such great care to keep the library tidy, so different from his own flat or even his appearance. He hair was gently falling out of the careless ponytail. It fell around his face, framing it gently. A breeze brushed Martin’s face, coming in through the window. It smelt of smoke and freshly dug earth and car fumes. A contradictory smell but a rather compelling one.

Martin’s phone vibrated in his pocket and the moment (if it was one, it may have been many or was it simply one long moment) ended. Martin blinked as he came out of the Weaving and placed it down. Once a Weaver was out of the flow of it, there was no point trying to continue the work. It would just end up confusing the whole thing.

Martin pulled out his phone and glanced at the notification. It was an email from the library. His card was ready for collection. Martin eagerly stood up. Was it a bit embarrassing just how much he wanted to see Jon? Maybe but he was currently riding the high from Tim and Sasha’s encouragement. He could totally talk to Jon.

But maybe he wouldn’t go immediately into the library. That might look a little desperate, as though he’d been waiting for the email. Martin glanced out the window again at the sprawling mass of trees. He did need to get a handle on the surrounding forests, learn where the danger spots were and how to navigate them. He glanced at his slightly muddy walking boots by the door.

Well, it was a nice day for a walk.

…

Martin’s boots crunched on leaf litter as he walked over tree roots and long grass. The canopy overhead was thick, the only light coming through was dappled. Martin kept one hand in his pocket, gripping a pen knife. He’d taken as many precautions as was reasonable. He was wearing a red jumper inside out and aside from the knife, he had several iron nails in his jean pockets. He also had salt and rowan and various other herbs in his knapsack but really all these deterrents were for the lay person. They were what you gave to a traveller who doesn’t know better. All a witch truly needs to avoid the fairies is their good wits.

Of course, that’s easier said than done. Mundane solutions to magical problems was a key tenant of witchcraft and no self-respecting witch would go into the forest without a weapon. But still, Martin also wasn’t going to ignore the magical solutions to magical problems. It was just important to not rely on them. No amount of red clothing would save you if you were foolish enough to walk into a fairy circle.

That was what the knife was for.

Martin continued his walk through the forest, the sounds of Magnuston muffled by the trees. He was walking around the town, getting a sense for the nearby forest. The sounds faded as he walked further away and as he did, he could feel someone, a something watching him. Its gaze heavy on Martin. The hair on the back of his neck were pricked up. He kept his eyes peeled as he walked, noting where the moss seemed to grow in odd ways or where the grass was unusually thick or thin. And then Martin saw the fairy circle.

It was big. He hadn’t seen a fairy ring this large before. It had to be at least ten metres in diameter. This fairy circle was made of mushrooms all growing various heights, the interior looked just subtly _off_. The grass was too uniform, the colour just slightly wrong. It looked like an imitation of grass rather than an actually living thing. Outside the ring, the trees gave it a wide berth and regular grass grew thickly up to the edge of the barrier where it stopped sharply. Oddly, in places the grass was flat. Parts of it was torn up, messed around like something had being moving through the grass regularly. That was very bad. Someone had been dancing in front of a fairy circle. Someone was walking in the woods. And judging by the strength of the marks, it wasn’t just one person.

Martin had hung iron nails from the trees surrounding the circle. The trees did not dare grow into the circle’s space, they naturally cringed away from the Otherworld. He poured salt around as much of the circle as he could but he had never expected anything this large and ran out of salt quickly. The whole time he did it, he felt as though a whole crowd of people were standing behind him, watching his every move. The gaze pressed into him, almost physical in its intensity. He couldn’t see what it was and it made him uneasy. It was fairies, obviously it was fairies, but that was hardly a comforting thought. Except now the watching had shifted.

Martin left the circle feeling cold. Fairy circles were dangerous. The fairies lived in the Otherworld, running parallel to Earth, brushing up against it. In some places the wall dividing the two worlds wore through and they bled into each other. At fairy circles. Of course, it was all variable. The border between worlds was stronger at different times, being weakest at Halloween and then building up strength. The border was so weak on that night, that fairies would ride out on a great Wild Hunt. Apart from timing, the easiest way to break down the barrier between the worlds was to call out to the fairies. It was why even saying the word ‘fairy’ aloud was dangerous, they could take it as invitation.

Martin had only had one encounter with someone who’d been summoning fairies. Martin shivered despite of the summer heat. The man hadn’t even looked human when he and Annabelle had gone to deal with him. He was all legs and eyes and hairy abdomen. It had been disturbing. Oddly enough, it hadn’t affected his liking of spiders.   
He was grateful Annabelle only had him help with the body disposal. The limbs were stiff after she killed it and touching them, even through gloves, he’d felt as though there was something hard and stiff under the skin. It was all he could do not to retch.

Afterwards Annabelle had been kind by Annabelle standards. She placed a hand on Martin’s shoulder in comfort. “It’s hard but it needs to be done.”

“I’ve never seen someone dead before.” Martin mumbled.

Annabelle had paused. “It’s hard but it’s important. If you don’t think you can handle it, deal with someone once they’ve become so far gone, then I don’t think you can be a witch.”

“I don’t know if I can.” Martin said quietly, staring at the once human beast.

“Prevention is the ideal course of action.” Annabelle stared straight ahead. “I think you’d be good at that. Give anyone who courts the Lords and Ladies a strongly worded letter.” Martin had given a half-hearted snort at that. “Always try to pull someone away from the Otherworld but sometimes…” she trailed off.

“Yeah.” Martin said. “Yeah, sometimes.”

“Come on then.” Annabelle moved towards the body. “After we dump this in the woods, we can get takeaway from that Indian place you like.”

Martin had shaken his head. It was so like Annabelle to treat something so heavy as just a vaguely unpleasant chore, one that takeaway would make better.

Of course, not everyone who called for the fairies ended up like that. Most people were taken to the Otherworld, whether as pets or servants or prizes, it was unclear. Very few people made it back from the Otherworld and even fewer made it back human. The longer a person spent in the Otherworld, the more fairy-like they became with all the loss of empathy and increased power that it entailed and they didn’t typically survive the re-entry. That was the end point for anyone cavorting with the fair folk, the loss of humanity. And that was what Martin had to protect people from.

Considering this fairy ring, Martin knew he needed to get onto the prevention fast otherwise he was going to have to do ‘clean up’ as Annabelle put it. He needed to learn who this group was and how much their will was their own. Oh, he hoped they hadn’t given the fairies their names. The only good news was that there hadn’t been any mysterious disappearances since Martin had moved to Magnuston so hopefully they weren’t too forsaken.

He really ought to have predicted this, Martin thought. There hadn’t been a witch in these parts for decades, of course people became careless, the dangers of the fairies became as fantastical as the danger of storms. ‘Oh, it will never happen to me and aren’t they so wonderful’ and then they’re hit by lightning.

Martin began making his way back into town, feeling a chill even as the feeling of being watched faded. Every person he saw, he examined. Was that woman’s feet just barely grazing the ground? Was that man’s eyes too deep? Were they just a group of friends going a walk together or were they going to the fairy ring? Or was Martin just being overly paranoid? He couldn’t just look at someone and tell if they were messing about with fairies.

The hairs on the back of Martin’s neck had risen again, he could feel a new something’s gaze on his back. The general pressure of the fairies was still there but now, Martin was certain he could feel a specific pair of eyes cutting into him. It felt more human than the general feeling of being watched. Martin gripped his knife and turned around quickly. The woods seemed deserted upon first glance however…

“Who are you?” Martin called out, keeping his eyes focused on the woman. She was dressed for hiking, sturdy clothes and Martin would be shocked if she didn’t have her own knife. She had been partially concealed by the bushes and had been standing so still that unless you were looking carefully, your eyes would simply pass over her.

The woman, upon being spotted, stepped out onto the dirt track Martin had been walking down. “Daisy.” 

“Why were you following me?” Martin kept his grip firm on his knife.

“I wasn’t following you.” Daisy said. “I was just… going for a run.”

“Sure.” Martin said. “I’m sure you were.”

Daisy scowled. “I like running.”

“In the woods?”

Daisy looked like she wanted to snap at him but controlled her anger. “Yes. In the woods.”

“Right.” Martin said, Daisy quickly rising to the top of his list of suspects.

“What were you doing in the woods then witch?” Daisy was tense, her eyes narrowed.

“I was going for a run.” Martin said, daring her to call him out.

“Sure.” Daisy said slowly. “Rather close to the _neighbour’s_ circle.”

“Funny you should mention that,” Martin said. “it seems someone’s been dancing by the ring. I’m sure you wouldn’t know anything about that.”

Daisy actually jerked up in surprise. “Someone’s been—” she looked closely at Martin before stalking off. Back in the direction of the fairy ring.

Martin hurried after her, not sure if he needed to stop her from doing something dangerous or if he was just curious. He caught up with Daisy just outside the clearing. She was very still, staring at the ring and surrounding grass. The feeling of being watched was rising again and Martin was sick of it. “Hey, what are you doing?”

Daisy turned to him, seeming to have not noticed his arrival. “None of your business.”

“Erm, except it really is my business.” Martin folded his arms. “You’re being really suspicious about this and quite frankly, I don’t trust you to not be the one dancing here.”

Daisy stared at him. “You think I would willingly call to -to _them?_ Those monsters?”

“I don’t know.” Martin held firm. “You’ve given me no reason to think you wouldn’t.”

“You could be the one dancing.” Daisy snapped.

“Are- are you serious?” Martin asked, genuinely taken aback. “I’m a witch, what reason do I have to court the good people?”

“You’re a witch, of course you fuck around with that lot.” Daisy clenched her fists. Martin began to understand. She was one of those people who thought that witches got their power from the fairies. She thought Martin was on the path to inhumanity. Not an uncommon belief, unfortunately. “I don’t want...” Daisy trailed off. “If you’re planning anything—”

“I’m not.” Martin said. “I want to help people as a matter of fact and—”

“If you say so.” Daisy muttered, bending down to examine the ground better.

“I don’t know what your issue is with me.” Martin said. “Just because I’m a witch, it does not mean I go out and consort with the lords and ladies willy-nilly.”

“We can look after this.” Daisy said, not turning around to look at him.

“Right, right. And who is ‘we’ in this case?” Martin asked to no response. “Course, should’ve expected that. So, what you normally look out for supernatural stuff because you don’t trust witches, is that it?”

“I don’t trust witches not to have their own agendas, yes.” Daisy said, back still turned.

“Well, I _don’t_.” Martin flung his hands in the air. “But you’re not going to believe me because you’ve decided I’m with the fa- the fair folk.”

“Most witches are.” Daisy said darkly.

Martin fumed for a minute in frustration before forcibly calming himself. “Right, right. So, you tend to do this sort of stuff? Have you been looking after Magnuston? Because guess what, that’s what witches do.”

Daisy stood up very quickly and turned on him. “Shut up. You don’t know anything about here or me.”

“So why don’t you just tell me?” Martin snapped.

“Why did you come here?” Daisy ignored his question.

“Why does everyone keep asking me that? Is it completely underheard of that people move?” Martin asked some higher power in exasperation.

“Things have been very active; it’s approaching Halloween and now you show up and people have been dancing.” Daisy glared at Martin and Martin realised that she wasn’t angry, not really. She was scared, terrified even and was reaching for anger as an old friend.

“Well, I didn’t have anything to do with that.” Martin said calmly, like he was talking down a snarling dog.

Daisy looked him straight in the eye, assessing him. “Sure.” She said and stalked off.

Martin watched her go off. That had been weird. He wasn’t surprised per say, that someone hated witches like that, that they assumed he was involved with the fairies and even the aggression wasn’t unexpected but the notion that she’d been the one dealing with the fairies, or rather, she and someone else. There was at least one other person in the town who, along with Daisy, had stepped into the vacuum a witch should’ve filled. Martin wondered just who they were. Also strange was Daisy saying it was almost Halloween. Halloween wasn’t for months. Were the barriers just so much weaker here that even before Halloween fairies could spill in? Or was it a more personal thing? She’d felt human but it was possible she’d had some involvement with fairies. The level of vitriol she had for them suggested there was some personal history there. She had been so scared.

Martin glanced back at the fairy ring. “Bet you’re enjoying this.” He said sourly and left.

…

The whole interaction had left Martin in a rather frustrated mood but he tried to perk up as he approached the library. He wanted to be in a good mood when he saw Jon, best foot forward and everything. Still, Daisy and the fairy ring weighed heavily on him.

Martin pushed the library door open and stepped inside. It was just as peaceful as the last time he’d visited, the still air and the smell of old paper. Jon wasn’t actually seated at his desk however. Martin walked up to it and glanced around the room. It was empty save an older woman typing on one of the library computers. The clack-clack-clacking of the keyboard rang out steadily. Martin drummed his fingers slightly nervously on the librarian’s desk.

“Oh, Martin.” Martin looked up to see a slightly dusty Jon emerging from a back room. “You’re here.”

“Yes!” Martin said with too much enthusiasm. “I am here for my card.”

“Right, yes.” Jon walked briskly behind the desk and riffled through his drawers. “Here it is.”

Jon looked down at Martin’s hands before passing the card to him. Martin didn’t even have time to be annoyed at Jon checking his hands for dirt after he’d had muddy hands _once_ , because his hand was grazing Jon’s. His skin wasn’t particularly well cared for but Martin felt like he’d touched electricity. He had to push down the bubbles in his chest.

“So, um, Jon,” Jon’s eyes flicked up to Martin as he spoke, “I was wondering if you’d like to get tea sometime.”

“Tea?” Jon asked completely taken aback.

“Erm, yeah. Just go to a café and then maybe a walk?” Martin tried valiantly to keep his voice from rising in pitch. “Just to, you know, get to know each other?” Unbidden, Tim’s voice floated up from the back of Martin’s mind. ‘Get your flirt on’ Mental-Tim chanted. Martin cringed. This was not a helpful thought.

“Why?” Jon asked. He seemed genuinely confused at why someone would want to have tea with him.

“I- what do you mean why?” Martin said. “I would like to, you know, get a drink with you, just spend time together. I- have I offended you somehow?” Martin was in somewhat a state of disbelief. ‘You could always make a book-based pun’ supplied Mental-Tim helpfully.

“I mean no-no, I’m not offended.” Jon stammered. “I just didn’t think you- I mean spending time- I, um, yes.”

“Yes?” Martin raised his eyebrows.

“Yes, I think I would like to get to tea with you.” Jon settled on.

“You-yes-good.” Martin hadn’t quite been expecting Jon to actually agree. “We could go to Brew-witched on Saturday?”

“That sounds acceptable.” Jon scribbled on a scrap of paper before handing it to Martin. “This is my mobile number. I shall contact you with further details.”

“Oh, um, thanks.” Martin took it. “I guess I’ll text you?” His voice rose painfully and he could feel the embarrassment rising up but ultimately be drowned by his joy. Jon had agreed to go out with him. He’d given Martin his number!

“Good. Yes, that is, um, good.” Jon said, as off kilter as Martin however neither of them seemed to realise it.

“Cool. Cool. That’s, um, yes, good.” Martin held up the scrap in a farewell gesture. “I guess I better be heading on then.”

“Er, yes.” Jon agreed seemingly on autopilot.

“Right. Well,” Martin shuffled his feet slightly, “I guess I’ll see you Saturday.”

“Yes. I will see you then.” Jon said. 

Martin smiled at him and Jon looked quite surprised, giving Martin a little wave as he left the library and Martin floated on air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be honest, I found this a pretty tricky chapter. I'm not entirely sure why but I really stalled writing it. Quite frankly, I'm still not sure I got Daisy right but oh, well.
> 
> Next chapter Martin goes on his date and unrelated spookiness occurs!
> 
> Please leave kudos or a comment if you enjoyed!


	6. Chapter 6

“Table for two.” Martin said like he was in a restaurant and not a café.

Basira looked at him over the counter. “Alright. Sit down at any of the free tables.” She gestured at the rather full café.

“Are you, um, alright?” Martin asked her. Basira looked exhausted.

“Fine. I’m fine.” Basira said flatly. “Go on and sit down, if you need anything just catch my eye.” She nodded at an empty table.

“Right, of course, sorry.” Martin mumbled and went over to the table, sitting down on a comfortable chair. He glanced around the café and then checked his phone for the time. It was twenty to two. He and Jon had agreed to meet at Brew-witched at two o’clock. He hadn’t really meant to arrive so early, he’d just been excited. And now he was excited and nervous. Very nervous. Did Jon even know this was a date? Was this even a date? Oh god, Martin had not been clear when asking Jon. Did that mean he’d brought Jon here under false pretences? No. Probably not. Well, even if Jon didn’t know it was a date, didn’t mean there was anything wrong. There was no harm in getting to know Jon in a platonic setting even if Martin maybe wanted something that wasn’t exactly platonic. Whatever the case, it was important that Martin make this work. A good… well not first, but a good impression anyway. Martin took a very deliberate breath. In through the nose and out again. This would be fine.

Martin glanced around the café again, taking in the patrons. His eyes catching on a group of teenagers who probably only bought second clothes for the sheer style points sitting in the corner booth, an elderly couple were sharing a slice of cake, a pale faced woman. She looked like she’d been crying and kept biting at her thumb in worry. There were only two employees working, including Basira. An oddly low amount for what seemed like peak time.

Basira moved briskly between the tables, carrying a tray over to the crying woman. She unloaded the fresh coffee onto her table. Martin was near enough to catch snippets of their murmured conversation. “No charge, Naomi,” Basira said quietly before taking the woman’s empty cup and plate. In her haste to get back to the counter, Basira jolted the tray when weaving around a table near Martin. The empty coffee cup made a bid for freedom. Martin lunged forwards and, narrowly avoided falling out of his chair, caught the cup. Martin’s hat did not quite manage to fight gravity and tumbled off him to the floor.

Basira stared at him in surprise as Martin handed her the cup and picked his hat off the floor. “Thank you.”

“It was no bother.” Martin shrugged, trying to act like he hadn’t almost fumbled the thing after catching it. He looked up her. Basira looked so worn out. “Listen Basira, are you sure you’re okay? You just seem a bit wrung out. Can’t you take a break or something?”

“Can’t,” she sighed. “We’re understaffed so I’ve been working double shifts to cover.”

“Oh no, what—"

“Timothy’s quit.” Basira said, it almost seemed to burst out of her. She’d clearly wanted to vent about this to someone, anyone. “He’d been lacklustre ever since meeting that girlfriend of his but he just quit a week ago. I haven’t had time to find a replacement.”

“Did he not have to give in notice?” Martin asked.

“You’d think that,” Basira sighed, “but _no._ When I reprimanded him for his repeated lateness, he just stormed off and yelled that he quit. It’s been… a bit stressful.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. That’s terrible.” Martin said, all sympathy.

“Damn man’s being a fool.” Basira sighed. “Chasing after Harriet Lee’s lot.”

“Who’s Harriet Lee’s?” Martin asked.

“His new girlfriend.” Basira sighed. “She, and him too now, have been all involved in some group. I don’t really know them, but they are very foolish. All new magyks and moon worship and that kind of thing. The power of nature, that kind of thing. Spend a lot of time out of town.” Basira said.

“Huh,” Martin said. “That does sound… odd.” He knew he shouldn’t be jumping to conclusions; he didn’t really know what was going on. For all he knew, this was just a group of pagans or something. Still, it wasn’t not-suspicious.

Basira nodded vaguely. “Who are you waiting for?”

“I—why do you want to know?” Martin said.

“Idle curiosity.” Basira said. Martin stared at her. He was starting to get the impression that Basira might be something of a gossip but not an obviouse one. She was a stealth gossip.

“Oh, I’m, um,” Over Basira’s shoulder, Martin saw the door open as Jon stepped inside, “he just came in.” Martin said lamely.

Basira casually glanced over at the door and then furrowed her brow. She looked back at Martin then at Jon and then gave a small snort. “I’ll leave you two to it.” She said as stood up. Martin couldn’t help but panic, wondering what about the idea of him and Jon on a maybe-date warranted that reaction. Martin watched as Basira gave Jon a friendly nod as she passed him by. Right, they were friends and Martin was an idiot.

“Martin, you’re early.” Jon said, interrupting Martin’s self-admonishment. Jon was standing stiffly like a new recruit called to attention, his hands gripping the strap of his side bag.

Martin smiled at him, delight at seeing him warring with his reappearing nerves. “Um, well so are you.” It was only a quarter to two.

“I didn’t think you’d be earlier than me.” Jon said, huffing up his shoulders.

“Disappointed I out early-ed you?” Martin said, allowing his smile to become more teasing.

“I simply appreciate having an opportunity to survey the area before engaging in new social activities.” Jon said, back straight and eyes staring at a point on the wall. It was rather as though he was giving a seminar.

“Is a thesaurus a part of your new interest?” Martin asked.

“What?” Jon said sharply.

Martin cursed. He went too fast into the teasing. What was he doing? They didn’t know each other enough for teasing. He could’ve really offended Jon. “Nothing, I was just- never mind.”

“Right.” Jon shifted uneasily. The pair fell into an awkward silence and Martin could feel embarrassment pushing up through his body. He really hoped he wasn’t blushing.

“So, um, anything interesting you’ve been researching lately?” Martin asked after a minute of neither speaking.

“I’ve been reading about,” Jon hesitated, unsure if he was about to be mocked, “hauntings.”

“Hauntings?” Martin was very surprised. Jon hadn’t seemed to be the kind of person interested in the undead. “So, like ghosts?”

“Yes, like ghosts.” Jon said slightly defensive. “I know they aren’t real, ghosts don’t exist. A lot of the time things that are mistaken for being ghosts or demons or what-have-you that have perfectly straightforward explanations. Most supposed hauntings are actually a result of faulty carpentry or poor wiring that causes unusual shadows or strange sounds. And even aside from that, if it’s truly inexplicable then it’s generally just the local gentry making trouble.”

Martin filed ‘gentry’ away as a term for the fairies, it was one he hadn’t heard before. “I don’t necessarily think it’s impossible that there are ghostly things out there. I mean, I do magic regularly. Is it such a step to think there may be spirits or something?”

“Do you actually believe in hauntings?” Jon asked.

“No,” Martin admitted. “I feel it probably would have come up in training. Although Oliver Banks, he’s a witch, claims he can see when people are going to die but he’s never mentioned talking to spirits or anything which I feel he probably would if he could.”

“Was this something Oliver… specialised in?”

“Yeah, Oliver knew everything about death and all.” Martin waved his hand to encompass ‘death and all’. “He was pretty morbid, honestly. But don’t people say the Lonely Moor is haunted?”

“People who say that have no idea what they’re talking about.” Jon said. “The Lonely Moor is a death sentence but not because of any _ghosts_ waiting there, good Lord. People think that just because it’s dangerous and people vanish there… And it’s covered in fog.”

“Hmm,” Martin hummed. From what he could gather from his readings, the Lonely Moor didn’t even exist properly as a location. Accounts said it was far larger than the external border suggested. “Not many people come out. Could be ghosts.” Martin could admit to himself that he was just being contrarian for fun now.

“I just think it’s ridiculous.” Jon rested his chin in his hand, staring off to the side. “Ghosts, hauntings, all of that tripe.”

“Then why… um, if you don’t mind me asking, then why research it?” Martin asked.

Jon sighed. “My ex has a ghost podcast.”

“Oh?” Martin said too high pitched. Jon had an ex? So, he then definitely dated then. That was good. Definitely good. “Is it good?”

“I mean, I do find the content a bit ridiculous a lot of the time.” Jon fiddled with a glass. “But the production quality is excellent and Georgie is very good at conveying a lot of information in a manner most find entertaining.” He said loyally.

“That’s cool. Yeah, cool.” Martin said, awkward. “What’s it, um, called?”

“ _What the Ghost?_ It’s on Spotify.” Jon sounded distinctly proud that his ex’s podcast had managed to reach enough mainstream success to be on Spotify. “She hosts it with her girlfriend and our son.”

“I’m sorry, _what_?” Martin could not have heard that correctly. Not that it’d be an issue if Jon was a father and had to coparent with his ex. That was perfectly fine. But _Jon_ was a father? It just didn’t make sense with Jon’s… well everything.

“Here’s a picture of him.” Jon proudly passed his phone over, having pulled up a photo while Martin had an internal crisis. Martin took Jon’s battered Samsung and stared at the screen.

“Oh, it’s a cat.” He breathed in relief. It was admittedly, an adorable cat.

“That’s the Admiral.” Jon said, still with the air of a proud parent. “He’s a good boy.”

“I’d say so.” Martin said. “His ears are too cute.” The Admiral’s rather oversized ears were the focal point of the photo. How could Martin not compliment them?

Jon nodded, excited and proceeded to go on a long spiel about the Admiral, complete with many photos. Martin listened, more focused on Jon’s bright face. His excitement was contagious and Martin simply smiled as Jon talked. If Jon hadn’t been oblivious, he might have described Martin’s expression as besotted. Eventually, Jon stumbles to a halt, remembering that general conversation etiquette required the other person to respond. “I am… rather fond of him.”

“I can see that.” Martin said. “It’s nice. So, you’re definitely a cat person?”

“They are inherently better.” Jon argued. “There is nothing more rewarding that having a cat come over to you for pets. A cat’s love is worth so much more than anything else.”

“I mean I like cats but…” Martin said.

“Are you a dog person?” Jon asked.

“They’re just such good boys.” Martin explained. “How can you not see one and want to make friends with him?”

“Dogs are just so… chaotic.” Jon said. “Whereas cats on the other hand, are so peaceful. They’re well behaved little people.”

“Okay, I will grant you dogs can be chaotic,” Martin said, “but you can’t claim cats aren’t just as bad.”

“No, I think that exactly what I’m saying.” A smile was pulling at Jon’s lips almost again his will.

“But cats always knock things over or mess up wool.” Martin protested.

“I thought witches were supposed to like cats?” Jon said in what Martin realised was a teasing tone.

“That’s a stereotype.” Martin said quickly while Jon grinned. “I mean Sasha does have a cat and so did Oliver…” Martin trailed off then shook himself. “but that doesn’t make it a pattern.”

“If you say so,” Jon said, “I do think you should get a cat, rectify this situation.”

“Ha, no. The only pets I have are the spiders in the kitchen.” Martin said. “Anyway, why don’t you get a cat of your own.”

Jon stiffened and turned his head, one hand tugging at a strand of hair and muttered something about living conditions and health risks. “Anyway, did you want to order anything?”

“Oh, right, yes,” Martin said, feeling bad. It seemed he’d hit on something Jon was a bit sensitive about. “Do you just want tea or-or coffee, that’s an option too, or do you want to get food too?”

Jon hummed in thought. “Basira does some very good falafel, if you’d like that?” Jon stumbled through the words.

“Yeah, that sounds nice.” Martin smiled at Jon. Jon cautiously smiled back.

The falafel was very good. Jon was happy to talk at length about whatever niche topic he’d had a passing interest in. Martin had never expected to learn so much about invasive species in New Zealand. Jon had a habit of simply ploughing along once he got started talking and not giving Martin a proper chance to respond but Martin didn’t mind. He enjoyed simply listening to Jon’s voice, enjoying the view one might say. He would occasionally chime in with whatever information he could provide which wasn’t too much until they got onto the subject of plants.

Jon hung on Martin’s every word as Martin explained the various edible or medicinal plants he grew or could be found in forests. Martin was happy to talk about his babies. Not that he called them that in front of Jon. For all Jon had fawned over the Admiral, he still seemed prickly. While Jon was relaxing at infinitesimal by amounts, he still seemed stiff, not fully sure of how to proceed in the conversation. Martin wasn’t aware of just how out of practice Jon was at just talking to people.

“Would you like to get some tea?” Martin asked when they were both finished their lunch. “I always like a good cup of tea.

Jon shrugged. “I’ve never been particularly partial to it. I don’t dislike it, I just don’t really feel the need to have tea.”

“What?” Martin leant forward in shock. “I can understand not liking it, but being _indifferent?_ Do you like coffee, is that it?”

“No,” Jon said, “I’ve just never been particularly fond of hot drinks. They’re just so…” Jon waved a hand in a circular motion to encompass what all hot drinks were. Vaguely bland, if Martin was interpreting him correctly.

“I need to show you good tea.” Martin declared, reaching out instinctively to grab Jon’s hand. The second their skin touched, Jon jerked away and Martin shot his hand back to his side. “Sorry, I was – sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Jon said, rubbing his hand distractedly.

“Right.” Martin said. “So, um, tea.”

“Yes, tea.” Jon agreed.

“If you’d like,” Martin said. “you could come to my cottage some time and I could show you a proper cup of tea. I mean, I’ve already, um, seen where you live. Might as well even the field?”

“I, um,” Jon looked away to the side before steeling himself. “Very well. That sounds like a potential… thing to do in the future.”

“Cool!” Martin squeaked.

…

Martin came home, happiness carrying him. He was practically skipping. The maybe-date had been a pretty good success. Sure, he hadn’t ended up clarifying whether it was a date with Jon it had been awkwardly wonderful. Martin went into sitting room in delight and collapsed upon the couch to smile at the ceiling. He waved happily at the ceiling spiders. Let them tell Annabelle just how happy Martin was.

Something dug into Martin’s side. He sat up to examine it, discovering it to be one of his knitting needles, wool still partially wrapped around it. Martin sighed and retrieved the unravelling ball of wool the needle was caught up in. He patiently detangled it and wrapped the wool back into a neater ball and put it and the needle in his knitting basket. Doing so, he was reminded of his Weaving. Martin made his way over to where he’d discarded the Weaving on the table and began examining it.

The strands were twisted and woven together in a complex and overly intricate pattern but a definite pattern none the less. Strange that. The more Martin looked at the Weaving the more symmetrical it appeared. Oh, there were deviations, bits that were completely random but the Weaving formed a definitive shape. An oval with a smaller circle inside it, lines of wool were crisscrossing it, bending around each other but definitely converging on one central point.

Martin’s eyes widened. If it was all converging somewhere, that suggested that something had manipulated the domain. The fact that the pattern was so regular also suggested some kind of influence moulding the community. Annabelle’s Weavings had been very regular because she was manipulating her domain. But this… Martin hadn’t done this, so there was something else out there pulling the strings. It was likely that this person, or maybe entity was a better word, was involved with the people walking in the woods. In fact, it was likely that they were at the centre of the Weaving.

Martin followed along to the centre, excited to possibly have found answer, only to find Jon.

Martin reeled back. Jon? Why was Jon in the centre of Martin’s Weaving? Martin had intended on doing a Weaving of the whole domain and it ended up being centred on Jon. Oh god, had Martin just been distracted when Weaving, thinking about Jon and that was why he was in the middle of it? Because Martin hadn’t done it properly. Now how was he supposed to use this to assess what was going on?

Unless Jon was the person walking in the woods. Martin recoiled from that thought. It just seemed so antithetical to everything Martin knew about Jon. He’d been so overly cautious, paranoid even, about fairies when Martin met him for the first time. Martin wasn’t even sure if Jon ever left town. Jon just couldn’t be calling out to fairies, he just couldn’t be.

So, either Martin was being sloppy in his work because Jon was taking his mind of his craft or Jon was going walking in the woods. Martin fiddled nervously with his shirt sleeve. Neither option was good but the latter seemed so much more unlikely. Martin hoped he wasn’t wrong about Jon.

He needed to talk to Tim and Sasha. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The maybe-date went well! I just want Martin to have good things not enough to stop what's going to happen but you know, it's the thought that counts.  
> Next chapter, the coven has a meeting, agrees on a plan of action and Sasha goes to visit some friends.


	7. Chapter 7

Martin leant against his parked car, waiting for Sasha and Tim. He nervously picked at his sleeve. The three had agreed to meet as per Martin’s request. For this coven meeting, Sasha put her foot down and insisted on meeting inside no matter how much Tim argued for spooky settings. _There’s a really nice place on the hill between Conventry and Millbank. It does great scones._ So that was the plan. Discussing possible fairy dealings over scones and tea. Martin hoped they had strawberry jam.

“Hey!” a voice called out. Martin looked around for the source before the voice yelled again. “Up here!” Martin looked up and saw Tim on a broomstick hurtling towards the ground. Martin instinctively leapt back as Tim barrelled down. Tim pulled up just at the last second, going a couple feet back up before losing the momentum and gently floating down. He swung himself off the broom like it was a bike and landed in front of Martin. “Hey.”

“Hi.” Martin said, still slightly agape. “That was-wow.”

“S’fun.” Tim grinned, slightly out of breath.

“Pretty fancy flying.” Martin said.

“Thank you!” Tim picked his broom out of the air. “Have you ever been?”

“What? Flying?”

“Yeah!”

“Oh no, I don’t know if…” Martin trailed off staring at the broom. “I’ve never really had the chance.”

“I could take you up for a spin sometime.” Tim offered.

“I- really?” He eyed the broomstick, it seemed sturdier than a simple sweeping brush but it still didn’t look that robust. But on the other hand, the idea of _flying_ was so wonderful.

“Yeah,” Tim brushed imaginary dust off the broom. “I’ve taken Sasha flying before, it’s a lot faster than cycling so sometimes I give her a lift. Ha, lift. That wasn’t on purpose.”

Martin laughed at the unintended pun. “Yeah, I think I’d like that.”

“It’s a fast way to lose a fear of heights let me tell you.” Tim said. “Well, either lose it or make it a million times worse. But yeah, flying is… it’s incredible.”

“You’re only the second witch I know who does it.” Martin said.

“Really? I thought it would be more common.” Tim said. “I mean, it’s one of the first things people think about when they hear ‘witch’.”

“I guess it’s just iconic or something.” Martin said. “Is- is that why you learnt to fly? Because you thought that that’s what witches do?”

“Heh, yeah.” Tim rubbed the back of his neck, a bit embarrassed. “I just learnt whatever I thought I was meant to know, you know? I don’t know how much of that is actually useful but I do like flying so it’s there’s that. ‘S a bit tricky to keep the hat on though.”

“Yeah…” Martin was still a bit in awe of Tim teaching himself although the downsides to it were clear.

“Sorry I’m late.” Sasha suddenly called from behind them. Martin and Tim turned around to see Sasha hop off her bike and jog over while wheeling it. “I rather underestimated how long the commute would be.”

Martin gestured that it was no bother while Tim said, “Sasha, it’s fine. I only just got here.”

“Oh, good. I was worried.” Sasha said, locking her bike to the bike rail outside the café. “Shall we?”

The three witches walked inside the restaurant. “Table for three,” Sasha told the waitress who was staring at three of them in surprise. “We’ll be having the afternoon tea.”

“Right, sure.” The waitress said, snapping back to professionalism “You can take the table over by the window.”

“Thank you.” Sasha smiled and lead the coven towards the table. Martin sat down beside the window and looked out to see the rolling hills and thick forest. The clouds were thick in the sky, spitting rain. In the far distance, he could just about make out Magnuston’s church tower. Sasha and Tim exchanged idle chitchat as they got settled and the waitress whirled over, setting down a teapot, milk jug, sugar and a plate of scones and biscuits. Martin gave her a small thanks and reached over to pour tea into his cup before moving over to Tim and Sasha’s teacups.

“Oh, cheers, Martin.” Tim said.

“No problem.” Martin said. “This feels kind of surreal honestly. I mean, who actually does afternoon tea?”

“I do.” Sasha said. “It’s a great excuse for midday snacking. And also, you feel wonderfully decadent.” Sasha put three sugar cubes into her tea. “I may also get a mocha too.”

“You’re going to kill yourself with that much sugar.” Tim said, vaguely disapproving as he poured milk in his tea.

“You’re just a heathen, Timothy Stoker.” Sasha said.

“Tea should not be sweet.” Tim argued.

“I don’t put sugar in my tea but honey can be really nice, especially if you have a sore throat.” Martin said.

Tim pulled a face while Sasha hummed thoughtfully. “I’ll have to try that.”

Tim suddenly snapped his fingers and then pointed at Martin, as though he’d just remembered something. “Martin!”

“Yes?” Martin asked.

“Did you ask Jon out?” Tim asked eagerly.

“Yes, I did.” Martin said, a hint smug. He suspected Tim hadn’t thought he would actually go through with it. “We already went on a date.”

Tim whooped. “Good going Martin!”

“Congratulations.” Sasha raised her tea cup in a mock toast. “Didn’t know if you’d actually do it.”

“Not everyone’s as much of a romantic disaster as you, Sasha.” Tim teased. Sasha blushed and looked at the ceiling. “But Martin, tell us about the date!”

“Oh, well, we just, um, met for coffee and then had some food.” Martin said. “We talked?”

“Martin, come on, _details.”_ Tim demanded.

“I don’t really know what to say. It was just very nice.” Martin said.

“I’m glad it was a nice date.” Sasha said, buttering a scone. “Tim’s just being nosy.”

“Like you’re not too.” Tim said under his breath.

“Also, I’m, um, not sure if it was a date.” Martin confessed.

“How?” Sasha asked, stunned. Tim just kept opening and closing his mouth in confusion.

“I, well, I didn’t say anything to Jon about it being a date and neither did he so he might have thought it was just a friend thing? I hope not but I don’t think I was very clear so maybe it was a date?” Martin said all in an embarrassed rush and then put his face in his hands while Tim and Sasha laughed at him good naturedly.

“Oh, Martin that’s kinda impressive.” Tim said.

“It’s definitely a new one.” Sasha agreed, fond. “I’m sure you’ll work it out.”

“Yeah, sure.” Martin mumbled.

“I presume this wasn’t what you called a coven meeting about, however, unless you really need our relationship advice?” Sasha said.

“Oh, um, no. Nothing like that. I’ve got some bad news.” Martin said, sitting up straight. “I’ve seen, um, there’s no good way to deliver this, people have been dancing outside one of the fair folk’s rings.” The amiable mood instantly shattered.

“Shit.” Sasha said. Tim grip tightened on his teacup to the point that Martin was worried he was going to snap the delicate china.

“I’ve just seen definite proof. The grass was completely flattened and slightly torn up by this massive ring just north of Magnuston. I’d never seen anything like it.” Martin turned to Sasha. “Do you know which one I’m talking about? Gertrude must have shown it to you.”

“I—No, no she didn’t.” Sasha frowned and bit the edge of her thumb in both irritation and nerves. “Why didn’t she show me something like that?”

“Could she just have not known about it?” Martin suggested. He highly doubted it, not knowing about every fairy ring in your domain was understandable but having such a massive, gaping wound in reality sitting boldly in the middle of the forest and not even knowing about it? That was not something any competent witch would do. So, what did it say about Martin that this ring was in right in his domain without his knowledge? Martin pushed that thought away, he’d only just moved here and he’d found it pretty quickly. He was handling this.

“No way.” Tim said. “Gertrude knew just about everything that was going on and I mean _everything.”_

“I guess she just didn’t tell me.” Sasha said quietly.

“She probably would’ve.” Martin said, trying to console Sasha. “If she’d had more time to teach you.”

Sasha shrugged. “Gertrude’s teaching methods aren’t the main problem here. We should really be focusing on the dancing.”

“I can’t believe anyone would be stupid enough to try dance for them.” Tim said darkly, jaw clenched.

“Well, we need to find out who it is.” Martin said. “Has anyone been acting, I don’t know, weird? Suspicious?”

Tim drummed his fingers as he stared angrily out the window. Sasha hummed in thought, hand curled over her mouth. “Hmm… I don’t know. I guess… maybe Harriet Lee? But that’s just that she hasn’t really been around her as much as she used to… I don’t know. Daniel Rawlings?”

The name Harriet Lee was distantly familiar to Martin and he wracked his brain trying to think where he’d heard it before. The name was tugging at him. He knew it was important, where had he heard it? Until Martin could probably work through those thoughts he was going to ask about Daisy. “Do you know someone called Daisy?” Martin asked. “I… met her while I was investigating the ring and she was, um, well…”

“Well?” Sasha asked.

“She was just very intense. I don’t think she’s walking in the woods but she seemed to know a lot or at least care more than I’d expect, she might’ve been a part of a group that dealt with the good neighbours.” And Martin explained the whole encounter.

“I don’t know anyone called Daisy.” Sasha said, racking her brain. “What about you, Tim? Tim?”

Tim jerked himself from his angry thoughts. “What?”

“Do you know anyone called Daisy?” Sasha repeated.

“Not here. There was a Daisy Fry who worked in Harper Collins but that’s probably not who we’re talking about.” Tim said, still distracted.

“But yes, it would be good to know who she and her partners are.” Sasha agreed. “It did sound like she knew a bit more about the fair folk and with dealing with them. She might have been involved with Gertrude?”

“You think so?” Martin asked. “I thought Gertrude didn’t really interact with other witches?”

“Well from what you’ve said, it hardly sounds like Daisy is a witch.” Sasha pointed out. “But… apart from that I’ve been thinking about things. Gertrude would sometimes go on these long phone calls that she wouldn’t let me listen to but from what I could overhear, it did sound like she was talking about magical stuff. Gertrude was always a bit private—”

“Gertrude would rather be shot than give a clear answer. She never gave more than the bare minimum information.” Tim cut her off, finally re-joining the conversation properly.

“ _Anyway,_ ” Sasha said in a voice that called for no more criticism of her mentor, “I think it’s worth looking into if there were a group of people who worked with Gertrude. They probably know how to help us deal with the situation.”

“I think, right now,” Martin said, “it’s most important to learn just what’s happening. Do some reconnaissance or something.” Harriet Lee, Harriet Lee, where did he know that name from?

“That makes us sound like spies.” Tim snorted. “But yeah, we need to learn just _who_ it is that’s dancing. I could try Scrying for it, see if I can get a good Look at the group.”

“I’ll talk to Michael and Helen.” Sasha said. “I bet they’ll be able to tell us something. _Yes,_ I know they’ll try to confuse us, Tim, but I know how to deal with them.” Sasha gave Tim a sharp look before he could say anything. Tim obediently closed his mouth.

“I think…” Martin hesitated. Harriet Lee was Timothy Hodge’s girlfriend! The one Basira had mentioned. He had his suspicions about whatever group Timothy Hodge had become involved in but he didn’t have anything to support his theory other than a base feeling. And then there was Jon. Martin knew that it was possible that he was the Dancer even though every part of Martin rejected that idea. Logically, it was possible, his Weaving’s centring on Jon was ominous if it wasn’t just a case of Martin fucking up. Either way, he didn’t want to explain that the man he had a crush on was a serious suspect and if Martin wasn’t willing to name Jon based on some evidence, then it felt wrong to just throw a whole group to Sasha and Tim as a possible lead when he had no evidence. If he was wrong then he’d just waste their time and accuse innocent people “I think I might have a theory, or two theories actually, but…”

“Yeah?” Sasha asked. Tim looked at Martin intensely. It was honestly a little unsettling.

“I don’t know if I’m right.” Martin said. “I’ll look into it.”

“Alright.” Sasha said. “Don’t take any risks.”

“Yeah, be careful, Martin.” Tim said. “The lords and ladies are dangerous.”

“I know.” Martin said.

“We should meet again. Two days’ time?” Sasha said.

Martin nodded. Tim drummed his fingers on the table. “I don’t know if two days is enough time. I’ll only be able to see them when I’m scrying when they’re actually dancing. And we don’t know if they’ll be dancing in the next two days.”

“Okay, but I still think we should meet soon.” Sasha said. “I’m going to want to tell you about whatever the pookas say and I’m sure Martin will have been able to investigate his theory further.”

“Point.” Tim agreed. “Alright. Two days from now, meet at my place.”

…

Martin walked into Brew-witched. It was empty aside from Basira and a waitress cleaning up.

“We’re closed.” Said the waitress.

“Sorry, I just need a quick word with Basira.” Martin said.

Basira eyed him. “Alright.” She said after her thorough assessment. “Leanne, you go wipe down the kitchen.” The waitress, Leanne apparently, glanced between them in confusion before shrugging and moving into the back. “That’s not an excuse to have a smoke break.” Basira called after her. A muffled ‘yeah, yeah’ wafted through before the door closed and it was just Martin and Basira. “So?” Basira asked.

“I wanted to talk to you about, um, Timothy and the ‘moon worshipping’ group you mentioned.” Martin said.

“Oh, what about them?” Basira asked.

“Just… just anything you know about them.” Martin said. “How long have they been around? Anyone in charge?”

“Anyone in charge?” Basira repeated. “You think this is, what, a cult?”

“Please, Basira.” Martin said. “I’m… I’m worried.”

“About a group of college drop outs running around without shoes on?” Basira raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“I just…” Martin paused. “There’s been, um, activity in the forest and I just… I just _know_ that there’s a connection. And-and I might be wrong, that’s entirely possible but I need to know more about them to be able to, well do anything.”

“Alright.” Basira said after a pause. “I don’t know too much about them. There isn’t an official leader as far as I know, but Jane Prentiss is in charge. She’s, uh, I don’t really know. I’ve never met her, just heard stuff about her. Wanted to be a witch when she was younger, I think.”

“Why didn’t she—wait, you don’t know do you? Sorry, sorry.” Martin fell back into thought. Jane Prentiss, it was something to go off. Again, he felt bad for just making assumptions but people who wanted to becomes witches and then never got the chance, they were a recipe for disaster. People who looked to witchcraft and saw only the dazzle of power and let it blind them would not realise that in chasing that spark, they’d walked right into a fire.

“Yeah, I don’t know her.” Basira said. “I mean, I’ve seen her around but I’ve never actually talked to the woman.”

“What does she look like?” Martin asked.

“Er, mid-twenties, white. Dyes her hair silver.” Basira said.

“Does she have a job or something?” Martin asked. If there was somewhere he could easily find her, and just see what she was like, get some kind of confirmation on what his instincts were screaming at him was danger.

“I think she goes around offering to do palm readings and that kind of thing, offering to teach people that.” Basira said.

“Do they work?” Martin asked, alarmed.

“What?”

“Her palm readings. Do they work? Are they accurate?” Martin asked. That was bad. If her readings were accurate, if they were real, if she was using magic, there was only one place she could’ve gotten that ability. Magic, especially flashy magic like predicting the future was difficult and required a lot of time and dedication and while it was possible Jane was just teaching herself witchcraft like Tim had, Martin just knew that wasn’t the case.

“I guess?” Basira said confused. “I heard Timothy swear by them but—”

“Basira, how much do you know about the fair folk?” Martin asked.

Basira gave him a long look, seemingly weighing her options. “Yeah, I’m pretty familiar with them.” She finally admitted.

“Right.” Martin said. “Well, there have been people walking in the woods. I’ve seen the footprints by a ring and I think, it’s only a theory but—”

“You think that Jane Prentiss and her lot have been doing it.” Basira’s face had drained of colour.

“I don’t know.” Martin said. “Listen, don’t—don’t tell anyone about this, I— I need to go.”

“Wait.” Basira said, reaching out to grip Martin’s arm as he turned to leave. “How long do you think this has been going on for?”

“I have no idea.” Martin said. “I only learnt about it last week.”

“When last week?” Basira asked.

“I—does it matter?” Martin asked Basira’s stony face. “Right, right, clearly matters. It was last Tuesday.”

“Right.” Basira said. “I hope you can…”

“Yeah.” Martin agreed and left.

Basira stared at the space the witch had been occupying. So, that was why Daisy had been so agitated. Why hadn’t Daisy just told her what was going on?

Martin left Brew-witched, no closer to definitive proof but he could tell he was on the right path and that made him scared. Martin pulled out his phone. He was no social media sleuth like Sasha but he could manage looking up a name on Instagram. There were a lot of dud results but the fifth account that came up when he searched Jane Prentiss looked promising. The owner was a woman in her mid-twenties who wore far too much eyeliner and favoured red outfits. Her hair was dyed interesting colours, most recently silver. In some of her pictures, Martin could make out locations in Magnuston. There was the church spire, there was the dingy pub, there was even one photo from inside Brew-witched, under different circumstances Martin would have felt a bit amused that Basira hadn’t met this woman even when she went to her own café. The account seemed like it had been pretty active but also very normal. But then it just stopped. The most recent photo was from back in March and was a weird photo of the sky blocked by tree branches and leaves.

Martin had a sinking feeling he knew where in the forest that photo had been taken.

…

Sasha strode up the slope. The grass was thick, coming up to her knees as she left the path and she had to hitch her skirt higher. She kept her grip on the iron poker she’d brought with her. The great thing about pokers was that getting hit by one would seriously hurt anyone. Other than that, the only real protection she had was everything inside her small-big bag. It had been nicknamed that by Tim who’d given it to her. He’d learnt how to make it from reading the diary of some witch from the sixteenth century who’d apparently left very helpful notes in between waxing poetic about the sky. Regardless, it was very useful being far larger on the inside than any bag had a right being while still remaining light. Sasha kept a number of useful things in there, including the poker normally but also a torch, a change of clothes and a fire extinguisher. That one was added after a rather unfortunate incident involving a barbeque. Gertrude had always impressed upon Sasha that the most important witchcraft was simply being prepared.

Gertrude had always favoured the more mundane solutions to things and Sasha tried to take after her but still, Sasha appreciated having some magical protections in addition. That was why she had a clarity symbol drawn on the back of her hand.  
Gertrude had taught her, rather reluctantly, about Seeing because Sasha had quite an aptitude for it. She’d always emphasised drawing on her own sight and never seeking out aids to seeing. Sasha had assumed this didn’t include the optometrist. Still, Sasha had broken Gertrude’s request. The Seeing sigil was one Sasha had seen Gertrude draw when doing she needed to deal with fairies and not be completely disoriented by them. She normally drew it on paper she’d carry and then burn after use but Sasha just couldn’t get the full use of it without the symbol on her skin. She was certain Gertrude was rolling in her grave…. Wherever that grave was.

At any rate, Sasha needed as much clarity as possible when dealing with the Lying Twins. The sigil prickled and itched on her skin as she strode through the grass. A part of her brain kept thinking to turn around, had she left the oven on at home? Hadn’t she already seen that rock? Had she remembered to put her HRT patch on this morning?, Sasha ignored the intrusions. She wasn’t going to let this pair lead her around in confusion. She was better than that.

A hare leapt up nearby, beady eyes watching her. It grinned at her then turned and bolted through the grass. Sasha followed it but she didn’t run, she wasn’t going to give it the satisfaction but she kept its blonde fur in sight. Until a woman’s voice called trilled from behind her.

“ _Sa-_ sha, how lovely for you to visit.” The thing appeared as a middle-aged, black woman wearing a vivid magenta pantsuit. While it appeared rather normal on first glance, she shifted uncomfortably, blurred like a concentrated heat haze.

“Hello, Helen.” Sasha said calmly, ignoring the way her black curls twisted upwards.

“So good to see you.” Helen clapped her hands. “Oh, where are my manners? Would like you like a seat?” Helen gestured to the elaborate armchair now sitting in the middle of the grassy field.

“I’ll stay standing, thanks.” Sasha said while Helen clucked in disappointment.

“Rather rude to turn down our hospitality.” A giggling voice said. Sasha turned around carefully to see Michael, hair as blonde as the hare’s fur had been. She blinked and Michael was over beside Helen, the pair grinning their identical, unnerving grins.

“I appreciate the offer but I’m here on business.” Sasha picked her words carefully.

“Oh, when aren’t you on business?” Helen asked. “You never just want to come and visit us.”

“Rather rude, really.” Michael said.

“Really, it is.” Helen agreed.

“I have something for you.” Sasha said. “I know haven’t visited in a while, so I brought you a gift because we’re friends.”

Helen and Michael both stared at her, grins wide. Sasha tried not to be unnerved by the pookas’ eyes. Between the pair Michael’s hare eyes were more palatable but the lack of whites were still deeply unsettling. Better than Helen’s horse eyes.

“A present!” Michael trilled. “Oh, that _is_ interesting.”

“And I’ll only give it to you, if you both behave.” Sasha gripped her bag, knuckles white.

Michael started. “I don’t appreciate—”

“—being treated as dog to be trained.” Helen finished.

“However, Sasha,” Michael used her name, relishing its taste, “we are _friends_ after all.”

“So, we’ll put that behind us.” Helen said. “But remember, friends visit often.”

“And not just when they need something.” Michael finished.

“Right,” Sasha said. “Here you are.” She pulled out a small package from her big-small bag and passed it carefully over to Helen. Helen eagerly tore the paper with her sharp hands, shredded paper scattering to the ground, until she pulled out a box of white chocolates and an Ikea catalogue.

“ _Oh!”_ Helen said, utterly delighted. “Look at all those _interiors!_ ”

“Does it have doors?” Michael asked, using his superior height to peer over Helen’s shoulder.

“Of course, it has doors! What home would be complete without doors?” Helen said. Sasha smiled very faintly to herself. As dangerous and malicious as the duo were, their excitement for human things, like doors, was rather endearing. Helen was also interested in general interior design while Michael was more fond of furniture in odd colours. Sasha always kept an eye out for books or magazines about home décor, Ikea seemed very up the Lying Twins’ alley. In addition to the catalogue, the white chocolate was a slight deviation on the traditional gift of milk or cream but it was a sweet dairy product and they both were even more fond of sugar than she was.

“May I ask my questions?” Sasha asked.

“If you answer our riddles three.” Michael giggled, looking up from the fascinating magazine.

“Go right on ahead.” Helen contradicted.

“I’ve heard that there have been people dancing for your kind, by a large ring in the woods. Would you be able to tell me anything about that?”

“ _Our_ kind?” Helen seemed bemused by that, turning to Michael. The pair started laughing hysterically. “Oh, Witch, that is such an imprecise statement.”

“What do you mean?” Sasha pressed.

“I wouldn’t want to tarnish your ignorance” Michael giggled. “but tell me, would you call your hand and another human’s eye the same kind?”

“I—” Sasha started.

“No matter.” Helen interrupted. “It’s probably the Filth’s attempted invasion.”

“A truly ill-thought idea.” Michael mused. “but they’ve always been—”

“—Rash.” Helen said.

“What do you mean by ‘attempted invasion’?” Sasha said quickly before Michael or Helen could continue.

“Oh, the Court of Filth is trying to make a powerplay here.” Michael waved a hand dismissively.

“Quite a poor decision,” Helen chirped. “Inserting themselves into the Uncanny and Watchers’ battleground.”

“They _never_ think things through.” Michael said.

Sasha reeled slightly, unsure which line of inquiry to follow. What battleground? Who were the Uncanny and the Watchers? They made it sound like there was a war going on. As for ‘the Court of Filth’, Sasha could remember distantly Gertrude saying something about Courts. Gertrude hadn’t been talking to her, she’d been on one of her mysterious phone calls, what had she been saying? They were clearly something the fairies seemed to know about and Sasha had the sinking feeling that they were also something most witches knew about. Her inadequate training was rearing its head and she had to force herself to not be consumed by panic.

“The Court, what do you mean by that?” Sasha asked.

Helen and Michael turned to her, twin expressions of confusion splitting into smug smiles. “You want to know about the Courts of the Lords and Ladies?” Helen asked.

“We could always give a rather more hands on demonstration.” Michael offered. Helen stepped aside to reveal a door that pushed open invitingly.

“No, thank you.” Sasha said staring at the void through the doorway. “I’m not just going to walk into the Otherworld.”

“No, no you won’t _walk_ in, will you? And you will hardly be coming to Madness.” Helen laughed and walked through the door, disappearing.

“Wait, what do you mean?” Sasha cried, surging forward as Michael also walked over to the yellow door.

“Oh, Sasha James,” Michael smiled, “you ought to beware the Court of Strangers, they reach for you.”

“Are they different from the Court of Filth you talked about? Michael, please, I need to know more.” Sasha pleaded. “It’s important to me.”

“And who are you?” Michael asked, the question had more weight, more meaning, behind it than Sasha fully understood.

“I’m… I’m Sasha, I’m a witch.” Sasha said. “The witch of Millbank.”

“Hold onto that.” Michael said. “You have a remarkable grasp on your identity, it may save you in the Place of No Given Names.”

“Michael—”

“Goodbye Sasha James, I hope you live long enough to see each other again.” Michael trilled as he closed the door behind him. The door that was no longer there because it had never existed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brrf, long chapter with lots of interesting stuff. Finally, Michael and Helen! It is sheer coincidence that they show up the weekend after the Spiral episode, but I'm just going to call that serendipity. They were one of the first things I planned in this fic and I love them. They are also a complete pain to write. I hope I managed to convey their general inhumanity and nonsense speech. Also, on the note of their eyes, pookas are shapeshifters most commonly looking like horses or hares and even in humanoid forms tend to have animalistic features, so Michael is associated with hares and Helen with horses.
> 
> Next chapter: The investigation continues, the coven coalesces everything together and bullies Tim into doing self-care.


	8. Chapter 8

Tim had been Scrying for hours now. Some might say he was behaving slightly obsessively; those people were obviously wrong. Tim was being perfectly rational. He hated the fairies, _hated_ them. They destroyed lives and hurt people for fun, for sport. Tim clenched his hands on the edge of his metal bowl. People who willingly sought out the fairies were either stupid or actively malicious and Tim refused to let them get away with it. It wasn’t right, turning to the fairies and inevitably selling out normal people. Innocent people. People who went walking in the woods either ended up becoming just as bad as fairies or wishing they could still die.

Tim glared at the water in his Scrying bowl. The image was fuzzy coming through, like it had an unclear signal. His Scrying was always more unclear in Conventry and Tim had no idea why. At first, he thought it was because he was doing it on his own, after all when he’d been first Scrying it had been in Millbank under Gertrude’s watchful eye. And then he’d tried to Scry at home only for all the images to come through distorted. It was annoying but not enough to fly off every time he wanted to Scry.

Maybe it was because he doubled up his Scrying bowl as a fruit bowl.

Tim also had never been naturally gifted at Seeing, not the way Sasha and Gertrude were. He’d brute forced his way into learning how to do it, mostly because it was one of the only things actually taught to him by another human and not books. Still, Tim had always had an easier time with the various fire and flying related things he’d tried.

Tim hit the side of the bowl a couple times and some of the water threatened the splosh out of the bowl. The image sputtered and then sharpened slightly. Tim glowered at it. He could see the ring. It had taken a bit of fiddling around to actually find the damn thing but now the Scrying was focused on the huge ring. It set Tim’s teeth on edge, seeing such a large ring. How could neither he or Sasha have not known about it? The answer, obviously, was Gertrude’s damn secrecy but Tim should’ve known better. He’d allowed himself to become complacent in his domain and not keep an eye on the surrounding area and now there were people dancing outside a fucking massive ring.

There were rings in his domain, honestly there were too many rings in his domain, but none were that size. The biggest were only three metres wide and Tim made an effort to stamp each and every one of them out. He’d found setting fire to the ring to be very effective although the bigger and older the rings were, the more gasoline he needed. Once he accidently started a small forest fire and the police had begged Tim to just stop. He didn’t. Tim couldn’t stop. He just couldn’t.

The image in the Scrying bowl rippled as a group of people appeared. Tim leaned in close, careful not to accidentally disturb the water. There had to be about five people. A woman stepped forward boldly beside the edge of the ring, raised her arms and started to dance. The picture was too fuzzy for Tim to make out any details of her face but her red dress was clear even in the night’s darkness. Tim urged the Scrying to get in closer, give him a better look at the group and the dancing leader. The others seemed reluctant to dance until one of them lurched forward and began to follow in the steps of the woman in the red dress. Gradually, one by one, each of the woman’s companions joined her in the dance.

Tim felt sick watching this. He wanted to be there, he wanted to grab them by their shoulders and scream at them. They were so stupid. They were in so much danger. He wished he could pull them away, shake them until they understood just what it was, they were messing with. Tim wildly looked at his broomstick. If he left now, if he flew fast enough, maybe he could catch them before anything answered. Stop it all right now.

But even as the thought entered his head, Tim watched as _something_ shifted in the circle. It was like a heat haze concentrated inside the ring. The Scrying flickered and shivered. “Wait, no.” Tim said aloud. “No! Hold it together.” But the image was rapidly sputtering out. Tim had time to see what looked like a worm before the Scrying collapsed.

A greasy residue rose the top of the previously pristine water. Tim stared at it. Where did that filth come from?

Tim poured the sludge out of the bowl down the sink. The smell was rancid. When he tried to Scry again, the water shimmered and sputtered before degrading again. Something was interfering with his Scrying. Something new.

…

It was several hours later when Tim’s doorbell rang. He dragged himself out of his sitting room-kitchen over to the door and opened it, swaying.

“ _Tim!_ ” Sasha yelped when he saw him. “My god, when did you last sleep?”

Tim muttered a vague ‘the other night’ but Sasha pushed right past him, dragging him behind her. “Tim you are going to nap right now. I’ll text Martin, tell him I’m delaying the meeting by a couple hours because you look utterly shattered.”

“No, Sasha, I’m fine.” Tim said. “Look, I can sleep after we have the meeting, okay? I’ve got stuff to say.”

Sasha bit her lip. “Tim, I don’t know… I want you to look after yourself. I know you can be a bit…”

“A bit what?” Tim asked. “Obsessive?”

“Yes, actually.” Sasha said. “Obsessive and you don’t look after yourself properly. Please Tim, just take a break.”

“I will take a break when we stop the idiots from walking in the woods.” Tim said. “Look, I was Scrying last night and I saw them—”

“Okay, wow, that’s incredible.” Sasha said. “But don’t try to distract me. Go to bed!”

“Come with me to bed.” Tim said, more on autopilot than any real desire to flirt.

“Oh no, not again.” Sasha said, texting on her phone. “There now, I’ve let Martin know you are exhausted because you haven’t been sleeping like an idiot.”

“But I’m your idiot.” Tim said.

“Yeah, you’re my idiot.” Sasha said. “Which means I have to look after your sleep deprived ass.” Sasha pulled Tim into his sitting room.

“Sasha, I’ll just wait on the couch. You don’t need to force me to bed.” Tim protested.

“You go lie on the couch.” Sasha ordered. Her nose wrinkled as she smelt the decaying smell emitting from Tim’s sink. “Christ, Tim what is that.”

“Well, when I tried to Scry after a certain point,” Tim said, sitting down on his beaten sofa, “it came out as sludge.”

“I can see that.” Sasha said staring down the sink. “This is disgusting- I’m going to need to clean this out. Tim _,_ how _many_ times did you try Scrying to get this result?”

“Just a few.” Tim mumbled as he lay down on the couch. God lying down was great. His couch was so comfy. He could feel his body sinking into the cushions, pulling him downwards. Sasha cast Tim a fond look and saw him lying face down into his couch, exhaustion catching up to him. As quietly as she could, Sasha went into his bedroom to grab a pillow. Tim was sadly lacking in the blanket department, only having his duvet and sheets. Sasha resigned to putting a coat or something over Tim. Her phone buzzed and Sasha saw Martin’s response.

 _Martin: Ok I’ll bring some teas over for him. Maybe a nice quilt._  
Martin: If that’s okay?  
Martin: I mean I can come later

Sasha smiled slightly at Martin. He was so nervous, constantly back tracking but he was also so nice and actually knew what he was doing. Sasha actually felt a bit embarrassed whenever he asked about her apprenticeship. Tim didn’t seem to share the sentiment, powering through with his own easy confidence that Sasha wished she had. She glanced over at Tim’s half-asleep form. “Hey, Tim, will you be okay for Martin to come over now?”

“Oh, yeah. Love Martin.” Tim mumbled before rolling over. Sasha smiled at him and resisted the urge to ruffle his hair.

_Sasha: That sounds all good! You have Tim’s flat’s address?_

_Martin: Yep_

_Sasha: Cool, see you soon_

Sasha put her phone away and tucked the pillow under Tim’s head. “What’re you doing?” Tim said indistinctly. Sasha hushed him gently and went over to his sink. Tim’s flat was typically immaculate, far cleaner than her own but whatever grunge the water had turned into in Tim’s attempts to Scry had stained the sink and was slightly clogging the drain. Sasha rolled up her sleeves and set to work.

She first rinsed down the side of the sink with hot tap water but when that only moved the sludge about, she began searching for Tim’s bleach and rubber gloves. As Sasha scrubbed away at the sink, she allowed herself time to think. Michael’s rather ominous warning was still ringing in her ears. She had to hold onto her grasp of identity, whatever that meant. Sasha knew she had a strong sense of self; she had always been rather stubborn and sure of herself. These weren’t always positive traits. Sasha knew she could be domineering and bossy but a lot of the time she couldn’t quite bring herself to care. But how was knowing herself supposed to help her?

And then there were the names. ‘The Place of No Given Names’, that was what Michael had said. Was that just another name for the Otherworld? Most fairy things tended to have multiple names and epithets simply due to the fact that fairies were wont to not use names ever. That could also apply to their own world? Sasha didn’t see why not. The Otherworld was a human term for a _very_ inhuman place. So, fairies would have their own names for their world.

Aside from the personal warnings, there was also what the Lying Twins had said about the Courts of the Lords and Ladies. The Court of Filth. Well, Sasha thought sardonically as she poured drain cleaner down the sink, she could definitely believe that was what had interfered with Tim’s Scrying. But then Michael had mentioned a Court of Strangers. That was, assumedly, unrelated to the Court of Filth and it was that Court that Sasha ought to be wary of despite of the Filth’s more immediate danger.

Or were they just tricking her? Michael and Helen were known as the Lying Twins for a reason. They were always deliberately oblique and spoke in winding riddles. They were difficult to deal with, being so flagrantly Not Human but with a thin veneer of personable paint over their alien nature. Sasha had wondered if they’d once been human. People who got taken to the Other world could sometimes trade away their humanity, gradually becoming indistinguishable from the other fairies and Michael and Helen both had these little flashes of humanity that had made Sasha wonder if maybe they had once been people, tricked into going to the Otherworld and held until their personhood had been eroded. But Sasha had since then discounted that theory. She’d gave a small hint of it to Helen who had laughed as though Sasha had suggested ‘the sky was made of watermelon’. Helen’s words, not Sasha’s. 

Sasha was drawn out of her thoughts by a knock on the door. Sasha left into the hall to open it, she looked through the door’s peephole. Martin was outside, holding a quilt with a bag slung over his shoulder. He was smiling slightly nervously at the door before Sasha opened it.

“Hi, Sasha.” Martin said as Sasha greeted him. “Is it alright I come in? I don’t want to disturb Tim.”

“Oh, it’ll be fine.” Sasha said. “He’s not quite asleep right now and if I know him, as soon as he knows you’re here, he’s going to be up and about.”

“Oh, I didn’t want—”

“I know.” Sasha raised a placating hand. “And personally, I do think we ought to leave him to sleep but—”

“Don’t you dare.” A muffled yell came from the sitting room.

Sasha exchanged an exasperated look with Martin. “—But Tim insists on having this meeting. So do come inside.”

Sasha lead Martin into Tim’s flat. When they reached the kitchen-sitting room, Martin wrinkled his nose instinctively. “Something weird happened with Tim’s Scrying water. Made it go rotten.” Sasha explained.

“Don’t know why.” Tim mumbled from the couch. He was attempting to sit up but Sasha just pushed him over.

“Keep sleeping.” Sasha told him.

“No.” Tim said, fully sitting up and rubbing his eyes. “No, we need to talk. There’s important shit going on and we need to deal with it. We’re witches, aren’t we? We aren’t just going to ignore mounting problems! We need to tackle this head on.”

“Um, would you like some tea?” Martin asked. “I brought some of my own mixes. I’ve got one for energising and one to put people asleep.”

“Yes. Martin, you’re a life saver.” Tim yawned. “I’d love some wake-up tea.”

“It’s no problem.” Martin bustled over to the kitchen section, filling the kettle and setting it to boil. “The energising tea is blackberry and ginger.”

“Oh?” Sasha asked. “I think I’ll have to try a cup.”

“I got the blackberry leaves from the bushes lining the roads near my house.” Martin said. “The ginger’s store bought though.”

“I’m sure we’ll live.” Sasha laughed.

“Thank you,” Martin said. “Oh, where are the mugs kept?”

“Cabinet over the sink.” Tim said. “Now can we please get on topic.”

Sasha sighed. “Fine then.” She sat down on a chair opposite the couch. “Do you want to start, Tim? You’ve been raring to go ever since I arrived. Apart from the nap” She amended.

“Yeah, well I have made a pretty damn big discovery.” Tim said. “Last night when I Scrying, I managed to see the dancers.”

Sasha nodded, already aware of this while Martin gasped. “Oh, Tim that’s great.”

Tim nodded. “I know.” And he told them about the group and the woman who lead their dance. Both Sasha and Martin listened intently. Sasha was cataloguing every detail Tim had been able to see while Martin was increasingly agitated.

“What colour was her hair?” Martin asked.

“It was too dark to get a very-” Tim broke off in a yawn but kept powering through, “-a very good look at colours but it looked light. Blonde, maybe?”

“Was she wearing a red dress?” Martin asked as he poured boiling water in the mugs.

“I…” Tim scrunched his face slightly as he tried to remember the details. His memory swam as the possible dress colours bled into each other. He cursed memory for being so susceptible. “I _think_ so. I’m pretty sure so.”

“Right.” Martin said. “Right.” Martin passed a mug of blackberry and ginger tea to Tim and Sasha each. They both thanked him and he didn’t respond, too lost in thought. It looked as though Martin’s theory had been right. He was both thrilled and terrified. It was good that he’d been going down the right track but he was terrified because he was right. He definitely did have to deal with this. Knowing for sure who it was, having a name and a face to the people he had to save or stop… it just made everything feel so much more real. Martin had seen Jane’s whole Instagram, knew that she used to have a pet dog. Hell, he’d talked to Timothy Hodge, who Martin was damn sure was involved with the dancing at this point. This was happening to these very real people.

And Martin had to stop it.

“Martin?” Sasha asked, bringing him out of his reverie.

“I know who the dancers are.” Martin said.

Tim and Sasha gave great reactions of surprise. Tim’s jaw dropped and Sasha gasped loudly. “How?”

“I just… I heard about this group of, um, people who had been getting in magic and the like.” Martin said. “They’ve been distracted and isolating, it’s kind of cultish from what I’ve heard. They’re led by a woman called Jane Prentiss.”

“How’d you work that out?” Sasha asked suitably impressed.

“It… it just seemed obvious?” Martin said.

“Trusting your gut.” Tim said approvingly. “That’s real witchcraft there.”

“Oh, I didn’t…” Martin trailed off. He hadn’t thought it was a gut instinct that had led him to Prentiss but it had been, hadn’t it? There had been nothing necessarily suspicious about Timothy Hodge quitting or Jane Prentiss doing palm readings, just some alternative beliefs but something in Martin had reared its head and declared that something here did not feel right. Something was wrong with them and he needed to pay attention. And Martin had. And it had brought him directly to the problem, solving the mystery that had been scratching at him. So, was Martin developing witch instincts? The thing that pulled witches and helped them monitor their domain. Was he becoming a proper witch? The thought was elating. Martin wondered if Annabelle would be proud of him.

“Sasha, did you manage to get anything out of the pookas?” Tim asked, pulling Martin back to the conversation.

“Yes. I did.” Sasha said, sipping her tea. “Oh, Martin this is so nice.” Tim nodded in agreement. “Michael and Helen were… helpful is not the right word.”

“Illuminating?” Martin suggested.

Sasha chuckled dryly. “Not quite.” She then told them about her meeting with the Lying Twins. She left out Michael’s warning. It just felt more personal than the rest and she didn’t know what it meant. Perhaps it was foolish of her to not tell her coven everything but she didn’t want them to become focused on that part. It was a warning for her specifically so Sasha would deal with it herself. She knew what Tim was like, he’d become fixated on the possibility she’d be in danger and neglect the bigger picture. When Sasha finished, she turned to Martin. “Do you know anything they were talking about?”

“I think so.” Martin said uncertain. “It wasn’t anything Annabelle ever really focused on but I think I remember them.” Martin racked his brains, trying to recall very detail Annabelle had ever let slip about fairy Courts. The problem was that Annabelle didn’t talk about them often, she never really gave the exact minutia of fairies any focus. “There are fourteen Courts. They’re kind of like the equivalent of countries for the neighbours, kinda. So, a Court will have its own territory and its own fair folk and they can’t change courts. That’s just… it’s like they’re a part of the Court and the Court is a part of them… it’s all very confusing.”

“And these Courts… are they different, like separate?” Tim asked.

“I, yeah, I think so.” Martin said. “Annabelle mentioned that some of them actively fight each other, I think.”

Sasha leaned forwards. “So, could they have something like a battleground?”

“I mean… maybe?” Martin said. “The Courts do have something of a geography in the Otherworld that overlaps into our world.”

“What?” Tim asked.

“Okay, so, um, the Otherworld has a geography and fixed locations. So, Courts have physical territories and the neighbour’s circles are also physically present in the Otherworld. So, if a ring is in one Court’s territory, then the place where that ring appears in our world, is influenced by that Court. I mean, it also ends up being more fluid than that, some Courts are more entrenched in an area and others are more free flowing. I think. It’s a bit hard to remember. I only really know even this was because I asked why the fair folk in the area were so spidery.”

“Fourteen of them.” Tim said to his tea. “Fourteen.”

“Can you remember any details of them? Like, any specifics.” Sasha pressed.

“I-I only know a little, and about a few of them.” Martin said. “The one in Annabelle’s domain, that was called the Court of the Mother. I don’t know why.”

“And the others?” Tim asked.

“I don’t know.” Martin confessed. “I just don’t know. I know vaguely about the Court of the Mother and I know that there’s a couple Courts that play by different rules from the others, like one doesn’t even properly exist in the Otherworld or another is just sort of everywhere, but I just don’t know about the details.”

“God, what kind of witches are we.” Sasha said quietly. “We should know.”

“Yeah, well, Gertrude didn’t want to open up, did she?” Tim said, bitter. “Left us in the dark. A different witch has to tell us this.”

“Sorry.” Martin said automatically.

“It’s not your fault.” Sasha dismissed. “I’m just frustrated. Why isn’t this more common knowledge? Why don’t people talk about this stuff? It should be mentioned in the books _somewhere._ ”

“I think it’s generally kept secret.” Martin said, trying to be helpful. “And I don’t think even witches even really know that much about the lords and ladies.”

“Okay, so there’s fourteen, the Court of the Mother, the Court of Filth, do you think that the other things Michael and Helen mentioned are also Courts? Watchers and Uncanny?” Sasha asked.

“Like I said, I don’t know.” Martin said. “Most fair folk things have multiple names anyway.”

“We’re getting distracted.” Tim said, pointing for emphasis. “Jane Prentiss and everyone else walking in the woods. What are we going to do about them?”

Martin realised both Tim and Sasha were looking at him. “Why are you— I’m not an expert on this.”

“Yeah, but you have some experience, right?” Sasha said. “Gertrude never took me with her when she was dealing with the other neighbours.”

“Well, the best thing to do is just dissuade them from going back. I did that a couple times. So, we should probably start with that.”

“And if they’re too far gone?” Tim asked, face serious.

“Well then…” Martin stared down at his hands. “I think you know.”

The group fell into a solemn silence, considering what they might have to do. It was a grim thought, having to kill someone before they could become a monster. Martin felt rather sick at the thought and the memory of the dead spider-person’s eyes staring out, unseeing kept forcing itself to the forefront of Martin’s mind. It had been necessary, it was necessary, but that didn’t make this in any way easier. They couldn’t just leave the situation alone, Jane Prentiss could end up hurting people. Hell, she was already drawing in more people, tying them up with the fairies. She had to be stopped.

“Right.” Sasha said. “I think we ought to consider all possibilities if we try to confront them.”

“Does it need to be a confrontation immediately?” Martin asked weakly. “Couldn’t we try to persuade her first?”

“Do you think that will work?” Sasha asked. “I think it might be better to just go straight for it.”

“I agree.” Tim said. “Look, how much do you think they’ve been dancing for? The marks in the grass were pretty noticeable so it’s hardly happened only once or twice. They’ve been doing this for _months._ So, we should come down hard, if they can be talked out of it, great. If they can’t then we have to physically stop them. I’m not saying we ki—I’m not saying we hurt them but we can’t let it continue.”

“Maybe…” Martin bit his lip, anxious. He wanted to deal with this, of course he did. He didn’t want his domain in danger.

“Also, we should destroy that ring.” Tim continued.

“I don’t know if we can.” Sasha said. “Martin said it was huge. I can’t imagine the kind of firepower necessary to uproot it.”

“If I could get a good look at it,” Tim argued, “I bet I could come up with something. Destroying the neighbour’s circles is a speciality.”

“Hmmm, I agree.” Sasha said. “Not necessarily about destroying it, but I think we should have a look at this circle.”

“Great, let’s go.” Tim said, making to stand up.

“No!” both Sasha and Martin yelled. Sasha reached forward and pushed Tim back down.

“You’re exhausted.” Sasha said. “The only reason you have any energy right now is Martin’s tea.”

“I can just have some more of it if I start getting tired again.” Tim argued.

“That will just hurt you.” Martin said. “It’s fine in small doses but you can’t keep taking it. It’s borrowed energy.”

“Tim you still need actual sleep.” Sasha insisted. “We’ll go tomorrow after you have a good night’s sleep.” Tim opened his mouth to keep arguing but was silenced by the glare Sasha threw him.

“Right so, we meet tomorrow in Magnuston?” Martin suggested. “I can show you the way from there?”

“Sounds like a plan.” Sasha said, overriding any of Tim’s protests. 

Martin nodded in agreement. He was feeling cautiously optimistic. The situation was rather dire and Martin was terrified by the possibility of having to actually kill someone, just put them down like a rabid dog, but he felt so much better with Tim and Sasha by his side. Tomorrow, they’d be able to assess the circle, maybe Tim would be able to come up with a way to destroy it, solving all their problems, or Sasha would think of some clever way of containing the fairies’ influence. Martin fiddled with his sleeve cuff. Things would be okay. Tomorrow would dawn a hopeful day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exposition, isn't that fun. There will be more details given in the future, but I am curious to hear what you think the different Court's shticks might be. Most are what Martin outlined but as he mentioned, there's two exceptions. Anyways, wholesome bonding for the coven crew!
> 
> Next chapter: The coven becomes acquainted with Jane Prentiss and old 'friend' visits Jon.


	9. Chapter 9

Tomorrow dawned less with hope and more with a vague sense of dread. The sky was overcast, thick with heavy clouds that blotted out the sky. It was dark and threatening rain, dimming the sun’s light into a bleak monotone. Martin attempted to maintained his newfound hope that things wouldn’t all go to hell immediately. Of course, that was almost tempting fate, he thought as he waited for Sasha and Tim in Magnuston. Martin wished he’d brought his umbrella for when it inevitably started raining.

Main Street was mostly empty, people busy working inside. Those who were walking around did so quickly so as to not be accidentally caught out in the incoming rain. It was a dreary day, all the colours of the town looked dulled. Martin suddenly spotted Jon walking down the street, presumably towards the library. He automatically blushed but waved at him. “H-hello!”

Jon stopped as he reached Martin. He nodded brusquely. “Martin. It is very favourable to see you.” Jon internally cursed himself for not being able to speak like a normal human being, fortunately, Martin was too delighted by Jon actually greeting him to consider his word choice odd. They had been occasionally texting back and forth but Martin was practically giddy to see Jon in person again.

“You too.” Martin said. “How, um, how are you doing?”

“I’ve been… fine.” Jon said. “Things have been rather quiet at work which has been nice. Given me a chance to organise the library better. It’s an ongoing project.”

“Oh, I thought the library was pretty neat?” Martin said.

“That’s just the public part.” Jon grumbled. “The storage rooms have been left a disgrace by my predecessor. Really, I’ve been meaning to make a complaint. It’s a truly terrible—” Jon cut himself off before he could rev up into a full rant. “Um, how has your work been?”

“Oh, I’ve been busy enough.” Martin said evasively. Jon was so awfully paranoid about the fairies, he didn’t want to concern him by telling him about the dancing. If things got any worse, then he’d tell Jon but he really didn’t want it to spread about. Hell, he probably shouldn’t have mentioned it to Basira but in the moment he’d been so worried. Besides, she had a connection to one of the people walking in the woods, she could’ve been in danger. Jon should be safe. He didn’t seem to know any Jane Prentiss’ lot and all his natural suspicion should keep him safe. “I’m waiting for Sasha and Tim at the moment actually.”

“Oh, how nice.” Jon said blandly.

Martin steeled himself and decided to take a plunge. “I was wondering, if you’d like to, um, see each other again? I mean, I know we’re seeing each other right now but you know, like a proper date again?”

“Date?” Jon asked, eyes blown wide, panic twisting his face.

“Um, yes?” Martin squeaked. “I mean, haven’t we already?”

“Wait, we _have?_ ” Jon was like a deer not just in headlights but a damn spotlight.

“When we went to Brew-witched?” Martin said. “I thought, we, um… at least I wanted it—if you’re not comfortable with that, that’s fine, it’s fine—oh god, are you straight? I’m so sorry.”

“What? No, I’m not straight!” Jon came back to coherence to defend his lack of straightness.

“Oh. Cool! I’m not straight either.” Martin said, obviously.

“Yeah, I gathered.” Jon said weakly.

The pair stood in silence for a minute, both dying from embarrassment. Martin couldn’t believe he’d managed to mess this up so much. He also couldn’t believe just _how_ shocked Jon was that they’d been on a date. Martin didn’t think he’d been acting that platonic. Although, the fact he’d just declared his gayness after asking Jon for a date, as though that was some great revelation so what did Martin know about social interactions?

“I’m sorry, look, if you’re not interested—”

“No, that’s it.” Jon said, staring away from Martin, unable to meet his eyes. “I am not necessarily, totally against going on another, um, date, I suppose.”

“If you want to.” Martin said.

“I, um, yes. I think it would be advantageous.” Jon said awkwardly. “Yes. As a preliminary measure.”

“Cool.” Martin smiled at Jon. God, he had a crush on an idiot. A wonderful idiot. “You sure about that?”

“What?” Jon asked.

“I was just teasing.” Martin said.

“Right.” Jon said. He looked down the street then looked back at Martin. He gave Martin a small, slightly uncertain smile and Martin vowed to treasure it as one of his prized possessions.

“So,” Martin’s Mental-Tim, reared his head again, ‘Get your flirt on!’. “Mr. Librarian, can I check you out?”

Jon’s mouth formed a surprised ‘oh’, eyebrows shooting upwards, face shocked adorably. Martin giggled at Jon. He was very cute. Jon took quite a minute to recover and then looked at Martin in surprise. “I—that was, um, yes?”

“Where would you like to go for it?” Martin asked. “Anywhere you want, since I chose last time.”

“Very well.” Jon said, thinking hard. “We could get dinner?”

“Yeah, that sounds nice.” Martin smiled, looking Jon in the eye. He had such warm brown eyes, dark and deep. God, Martin was far gone.

“Martin!” A shadow fell on them and both Martin and Jon looked up to see the slightly wobbly broomstick lowering. There seemed to be two figures on it.

Jon looked back at Martin. “Well, I hope your coven meeting goes well.”

“Oh, um, me too?” Martin said, uncertain where Jon was going with this.

“I really must be going back to the library now. My lunch break is only so long.” He said. “And I don’t want to interrupt.”

“Well, bye then.” Martin said.

“Goodbye.” Jon said briskly and set off back to his work.

“Oh, hey, was that Jon?” Tim asked as the broomstick stopped. Sasha slipped off the side of it.

“Yeah, he had to go back to work.” Martin said. “Did you two—”

“Broompool?” Tim interrupted. “Yep, we did.”

Sasha laughed. “Tim, literally no else calls it that.”

“Ah, but I do and it’s my broomstick so that’s what matters. It’ll catch on.” Tim said, hoisting the stick over a shoulder. “Right, so, we should be heading on then.”

“Yes, I suppose.” Martin said and the trio set off towards the fairy circle.

…

They walked mostly in grim silence. Martin tried to make some upbeat small talk that Tim and Sasha attempted to reply to but there was such an oppressive atmosphere of dread that caused any conversation to die. Martin couldn’t even bring himself to tell Tim about definitely having a future date with Jon. It just didn’t feel like the time.

As they walked, it grew ever more dark. The thick canopy blocking what light there was until it was like they were walking in twilight. Martin was fairly certain the darkness was from entirely mundane circumstances but it still felt ominous. The trees seemed to be narrowing, branches reaching out into to the path to snatch at them. Martin had to detangle himself from brambles several times and the grass was waterlogged. He could feel the damp seeping into his shoes from all the boggy ground they’d had to walk through. It felt as though the whole forest was holding its breath. Even the feeling of being watched was slightly diminished. Martin could hardly say he missed it but it did set him on edge. Where was the unknown watcher?

The coven arrived at the fairy circle and Martin couldn’t help but notice that it didn’t become any less dim even though the absence of trees in the immense circle should have let more light into the clearing. Tim and Sasha approached the circle cautiously, actively leaning away from it even as Sasha bent down to examine the bordering mushrooms and Tim surveyed the circumference. The ring had a gravity to it, actively pulling them forwards that Tim and Sasha were actively resisting.

“Shit.” Sasha eventually said, shattering the dark silence.

“Yeah, no kidding.” Tim agreed and Martin hummed in agreement just to fill that uncomfortable void.

“I know, Martin, you said it was big but to actually see it…” Sasha trailed off. “It’s…”

“It’s just another circle.” Tim said confidently. “It doesn’t matter how big it is, anything can be broken.” Tim began rifling through his bag. “I have some lighter fluid in here somewhere.”

“Do you think that will work?” Martin said doubtfully staring at the ring. It felt far too powerful for something as trivial as fire to so much as scratch it. You might as well try to burn a mountain down with matches.

“Yeah, look everything’s wet. Nothing will properly catch.” Sasha said, gesturing to the sodden grass. Martin pretended that was what he’d meant. Purely a logistical issue, just the dampness, nothing inherent to the site.

“Don’t think that’s a reason not to try.” Tim said, putting his broom down in the grass and continuing to paw through his bag. “Shit, why is everything useful always at the bottom of the bag?”

Sasha opened her own bag, pulling out a set of tweezers and a magnifying glass. She didn’t bother to properly close the bag as she started taking samples and looking at the ring up close. Martin paced the clearing, feeling deeply unsettled. He couldn’t get the sense that something was terribly wrong. He tried to tell the others about lacking the feeling of being watched to which Tim had simply said ‘Good’ and Sasha didn’t react. And yes, it probably was good that the fairies weren’t watching them but Martin remembered just how overwhelming the feeling of being watched had been last time he’d been by the ring and even just generally being in the woods. Its absence felt more like a warning sign, a bizarre canary in a coal mine and Martin wished he could explain how much he thought they should leave the mine.

As Martin skirted the perimeter, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as he smelt _something_. It stank of rot and sulphur. Martin instinctively wrinkled his nose and followed it, deliberately breathing through his mouth as he approached the source of the stench. A crawling feeling of dread slunk through Martin. He knew, he just knew, that whatever the source of the smell was, it was going to be terrible. The fact that the enemy they seemed to be dealing with was called ‘Filth’ did not escape Martin’s thoughts and yet he somehow couldn’t bring himself to call out to Sasha and Tim.

Martin approached a particularly thick patch of grass. The reek became overpowering and he had to put a hand over his nose. Martin looked down into the grass and gasped.

It was Timothy Hodge, Martin recognised him from Brew-witched but this was a far cry from the slightly distracted man who’d given Martin book advice. His face was disgustingly pale and drenched in sweat, his hair looked drenched with the stuff. He was faintly twitching but his clothing wriggled on top of him. His skin also seemed to be oddly stretched, pulled and shifting as though there was something underneath it. As Martin stared in horror, he saw Timothy turn his head so his feverishly bright eyes were looking at Martin, looking but not seeing. There was no indication that Timothy recognised him or even saw him but he opened his mouth. Martin didn’t know if he meant to speak or scream but what came out were worms. They shot out, faster than Martin even knew worms could move.

Martin stumbled backwards. He didn’t scream but the yelp that came out was loud enough to catch Tim and Sasha’s attention. “Oh, God!” He said by way of an explanation, still moving away from Hodge as fast as could. “Worms!”

“Worms?” Sasha asked.

“It’s—” Martin had no idea how to properly explain. “Timothy Hodge, one of the dancers, he’s—oh good God.”

Tim tore over to Martin, sprinting around the curve of the fairy ring until he saw Hodge and gave a cry of disgust. “Oh shit, that’s—” he cut himself off. “So-so we need to…”

“Yeah.” Martin agreed.

Sasha screamed.

Martin and Tim whipped around to see Sasha. She’d dropped her bag in shock and was staring at the approaching figure.

Judging by its red dress and light hair, it must have once been Jane Prentiss. It wasn’t anymore. She didn’t walk properly, the legs jerked vaguely, more like an imitation and worms flooded out of the holes that scrawled her body. Her skin looked rotten and her hair was drenched in grease and worms. She didn’t seem to have eyes anymore, just more holes for the worms to burrow through. And the worms were everywhere, swarming her body, weaving in and out of her skin in a way that made Martin want to vomit.

“Witches…” Prentiss didn’t so much say the words as the words scratched themselves out of her throat in a screeching breath. “You came…”

“Jane Prentiss?” Sasha tried to keep her voice level but she was trembling, all of them were.

Prentiss hissed as though scalded. “Don’t use that.... Throwing names around spitefully… You don’t understand… Of course... not… no one else does… there’s just me…”

“We can help you.” Sasha tried again.

“Help?... why would I need help?” and then Jane Prentiss did something Martin would never forget. It could be described as a smile the same way tiger eating you could be described as a house cat. Worms wriggled between her rancid teeth and oozed out of her mouth. “I have been… made… perfect… I can help you?”

“No!” Tim snarled, instinctively grabbing Martin as though he was going to protect him.

“…no?” Prentiss titled her head sickeningly to the side. “… unfortunate…”

And then everything was worms.

…

Jon liked the library. He really did. Being surrounded by so much knowledge was comforting, having books all close at hand, ready to be read, Jon found it rather reassuring. The silence was also appreciated. Jon liked how human the silence was. Because it wasn’t a perfect silence, people’s footsteps, breathing, the computer keyboard clacking, all muffled by the library’s quiet but still present, texturing the silence. It was an alive silence. Very different from the sheer absence of sound even as you screamed—

Something was wrong.

He could feel something watching him, _intently._ Jon jerked his head up. He barely had time to think ‘oh, shit’ before the library doors opened.

“My, my, Jon. Iron door handles? Really?” Elias Bouchard stepped through, backlit, his shadow reached for Jon’s desk. “It seems a tad excessive.”

Jon stood up instinctively. He was glad for the desk, putting an object between him and Elias. If he needed to he could always kick it at Elias. The fact that Jon may not be strong enough to even knock the desk over didn’t properly factor into this thought. He just couldn’t think rationally, his prized logic was slipping out of his grasp and all Jon was left with was the fear.

“Elias.” Jon fought against his trembling vocal cords to keep his voice steady. “Why are you here?”

“I just thought I should pop by, see how you’re doing.” Elias said calmly, slipping off white gloves. “But really Jon, iron door handles? I _know_ those are an addition.”

Jon ignored Elias’ comments. He had been responsible for all the library doors having iron handles. Jon may or may not have unscrewed the original handles at the dead of night on one of his more paranoid days. He thought it would help keep things like Elias, especially Elias, out. Evidently, it hadn’t worked. Gloves. Jon cursed himself for not thinking of such a simple solution. Stupid, stupid.

“It rather was.” Elias agreed. “It’s not as though you’re unfamiliar with the strategy.” He angled his head towards Jon’s coat that had gloves tucked into the pocket.

“Stay out of my head.” Jon hissed.

“I don’t need to be.” Elias said. “You were glaring at my gloves as though they’d personally offended you. Rather unnecessary, they’re quite nice. They’re from Paris.”

“How could you go to Paris?” Jon asked, legitimately surprised that Elias could go so far from his place of power.

“The gentleman I, ah, acquired them from bought them in Paris.” Elias corrected. “My apologies for the lack of clarity.”

“Why are you here?” Jon repeated, looking around the library. It was thankfully empty. Jon didn’t have to worry about collateral if this went nasty.

“As I said, I wanted to see how you were doing, ah, face to face as it were. As opposed to eye to eye. You see, it’s humo—”

“I understand the joke.” Jon bit out, defences raised high.

“You are in a tetchy mood.” Elias said, idly wandering over to examine the nearest bookshelf. “My, my, you do keep these in good condition. I do appreciate that as soon as you find yourself in need of work you go straight to a new palace of knowledge, why it rather does say someth—”

“You’re wrong.” Jon said. Damn, damn, stupid. Don’t react. Don’t give Elias what he wants. Don’t show him that he has any power over you. Of course, Jon had never been very good at that. Melanie would be disappointed in him.

“I suppose you have a point.” Elias smiled in amusement. “This isn’t quite a _palace_ of knowledge. A bit of a downgrade, honestly. But I really do have a purpose to being here.”

“Oh, _really_ now.” Jon bit out. “Are you going to actually be clear for once in your life or—”

“I have always tried to be helpful, Jon.” Elias said.

“Helpful?” Jon whispered. The idea that Elias would claim to be helpful was down right offensive. “Then why are you here? And _don’t_ just say you’re here to see me again, we both know you’re always checking on me.”

Elias sighed elaborately. “I really did hope we could put this hostility behind us, it’s quite tiresome but if you’re still choosing to be angry, well, there’s very little I can do about it. But in answer to your question, I am hear to give you a warning and, perhaps, some advice.”

Jon just kept glaring, shoulders squared and legs ready to bolt. A part of Jon felt bad being so on edge, after all it was Elias, he knew Elias. He looked amiable, a nice middle-aged man having a friendly chat with an old acquaintance. It felt unreasonable to be so hostile to such banality. But for the rest of Jon, that was the exact reason he so scared, after all it was Elias and he _knew_ Elias. He knew that the way Elias presented himself was just another tool in the fairy’s arsenal. “Why should I listen to anything you say? You don’t care about me, why the hell should I believe you’re giving me, what, a warning? Out of the goodness of your own heart? Or is this just another threat?”

“Jon,” Elias smiled like an indulgent parent to an unruly child. “when have I ever made threats?” Jon gave him an icy look that Elias ignored. “Regardless, this isn’t even a case of me being invested in your continued living. I’m being even more considerate. Charitable, really.”

“Get on with it.” Jon said. The sooner Elias gave his ominous warning or whatever, the sooner Elias would leave.

“I’ve noticed that a new witch has moved into the area and I’ve heard, that you and him have become… acquainted. Close even.”

“Are-are you giving me relationship advice?” Jon asked, too stunned to even unpack whether he considered himself close to Martin. Obviously not, they’d only deliberately met once although that had apparently been a date. Jon pushed those thoughts away, he did not want to unpack _that,_ especially not with Elias grinning like a smug cat in front of him. “Are you going to tell me, what, you think he’s not good for me or something?” Jon asked, hysteria rising in him.

“Oh no, I didn’t think you would appreciate me commenting on your personal decisions. Although, if you want my opinion, I do think he could be very good for you—”

Jon could feel his insides dying from the sheer whiplash of this encounter. “I really don’t want to know what you think of Martin.”

“Very well,” Elias said. “I just thought you might find _Martin’s_ wellbeing relevant.”

Jon cursed himself, just handing Elias half of Martin’s name. He was being sloppy, Elias always managed to make him slip up, his emotions charged so his caution flew out the window. “If you’re threatening Martin—”

“What did I just say about threats?” Elias said. “No, no, I’m telling you this so you can help your little witch friend.”

“What?” Jon asked after a horrified pause.

“The Court of the Crawling Rot has tried to make an incision into the area. Obviously, a foolhardy move and one that will, I imagine, weaken them more in the long term however their methodology for this was—”

“They used the ring.” Jon said.

“Quite right.” Elias agreed. “I believe they drew in several people from the towns nearby. Tell me, Jon, have you noticed anyone going missing lately?”

Jon felt sick. He’d had his suspicions that people had been dancing but he hadn’t investigated them. Why should he? He wasn’t a witch, he was just a man in way over his head. He tried to help people, he really did but he just wasn’t good at it. He hadn’t bothered to properly look into everything he’d been hearing about and now— “What’s happened?”

“Most of the humans didn’t exactly take to the Filth however, one of them did. The Corrupting Court now has something of a foothold in here. Jane Prentiss, I believe her name was.” Elias said. “Quite a potent one too and your witch is running right towards her. If you can truly call him a witch. He barely knows anything. Definitely not enough to protect himself.”

The bottom fell out of Jon’s stomach. Martin had said he was just having a coven meeting but what if he’d gone off to investigate the dancing or the ring itself. Or maybe the coven was just meeting in the woods somewhere and the Infected Jane Prentiss came upon them and—

“Where is he? Martin, is he—what’s happening?” Jon begged Elias, casting aside all his usual rules for dealing with Elias.

“They were by the fairy circle when Jane found them. She is—oh my, that is rather a lot of worms.” Elias said in a conversational tone. Jon wanted to scream, shake him, make him take this seriously but Elias was having too much fun. He had knowledge Jon wanted and was reticent in giving it easily. He was just taunting Jon. ‘Look how much you want to know, look how useful Knowing is, you still need it.’ “If I were you, I’d hurry.”

“Is—are they in danger?” Jon asked. He knew Sasha and Tim decently. Sasha was always so efficient and Tim was a bit too friendly for Jon’s reserved nature. They were good people. They didn’t deserve whatever the Court of Filth would do to them and Martin… Jon had just decided that he liked the man, just agreed to try a date, he couldn’t lose him so soon.

“Jonathon,” Elias said wryly, “they’re witches, they’re always in danger.”

“Right now, Elias.” Jon said.

“Oh yes, then.” Elias looked out into what appeared to be nothing. “Very much so.”

Jon could feel the panic building in him. Martin was in danger. He was in danger and Elias was just standing there, watching to see what he would do. Jon knew that Elias was manipulating him, that’s what Elias did. He wanted Jon to interfere with Jane Prentiss. Jon didn’t know why and normally would try to be as contrarian to Elias’ wishes but Martin… Martin was in danger. Martin who helped carry his heavy books and invited him on a date and liked tea and who just seemed like a good person. Jon didn’t want another good person to have to suffer or die just because some fairies were trying to one up each other. It wasn’t fair.

So, Jon ran out the library, Elias’ amused laughter ringing after him. He grabbed his coat as he left, tugging it on and not stopping even as he put on his gloves. He opened his eyes wide and felt the pull of long-dormant magic guiding him. Jon could never be described as an athlete and was hardly a long-distance runner, but on that day, Jonathon Sims blazed out of Magnuston, out towards the fairy circle to save Martin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun, dun, dun! Very dramatic.   
> (Also shout out to the official Rusty Quill server for giving me that cheesy pick up line, it had to go in)
> 
> Next time: everyone gets their steps in for the day


	10. Chapter 10

Martin stumbled through the woods while the ever-present tide of worms chased behind him. The sound they made was disgusting, and made him want to wretch. Unfortunately, that wasn’t an option for Martin. He blinked frantically as rain fell from the sky, desperate to keep his vision clear. His breathing was heavy and his legs hurt from running but there could be no pause, no rest, the worms were behind him eager to dig into his skin and hollow him out.

He’d gotten separated from Tim at some point. At least, Martin hoped so. He hoped that Tim had just taken a different path and wasn’t— Tim had to have just taken a different turn. Tim had to be fine. He didn’t even know where Sasha could be. When Jane Prentiss’ worms had lunged for them, he and Tim had been together while Sasha had been on the other side of the clearing. Sasha was clever, Martin was sure she was fine.

…Except he really wasn’t sure. Who was he kidding? He had no idea if Tim and Sasha were even still alive, they could have been devoured and he wouldn’t know. They were so unprepared for any of this. Martin cursed himself in between trying not to slip on the muddy ground, he hadn’t taken the threat of the dancing seriously enough. He’d held that information to his chest for weeks and then was too distracted by his romantic life to properly investigate. He’d let this problem fester and grow ever more dire right under his nose and now it was out of control and he might die. He was going to die.

Except it wasn’t just his own imminent demise, but Tim and Sasha too. Why had he waited so long to tell them about everything? Why had they not been more prepared for any of this? Why didn’t he know enough to combat Jane Prentiss? He was stumbling in the dark, seemingly not knowing _anything_ useful about the fairies. He didn’t even know the different Courts’ names let alone how to combat them or what damage they could do! Annabelle would know what to do. Annabelle would never be in this situation, running for her life with no plan as to how fix anything. She knew better. A part of Martin jerked at that thought. Annabelle knew better.

Why hadn’t she taught him better?

Martin yelled out as he slipped on the sodden grass, his momentary distraction costing him. Instinctively, he went to brace for impact but then he realised that stopping like that would allow the worms ample opportunity to swarm him. So as Martin hit the ground, he rolled to the side, one hand gripping his hat, and off the path he’s been vicariously following and down the slope of the hill. He bounced, hitting off stones and he had to duck his head to protect it. He finally came to a halt slamming into flooded moss. The air was knocked out of his lungs and he wheezed in pain. Martin allowed himself just a second of being dazed before scrabbling back to his feet. The tide of worms was chasing him down the hill and he had to keep running.

He was drenched now from the rain and the wet ground. Mud coated his clothes and water sloshed inside his shoes unpleasantly. How long had he been running now? Too long. Martin wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep going for. He ached. The arches of his feet was screaming and his legs were trembling. Everything ached from his fall. He had to take great, shuddering gasps of air just to breathe but it wasn’t enough. He felt like he was drowning. He was so tired and there was no end in sight. Unless… Martin’s bleary gaze fell on the trees he was passing by. Many had decently low branches.

It was a desperate plan but better than just collapsing. Martin didn’t have time to properly assess the ideal tree for climbing, he just sprinted over to the nearest one that had branch he’d be able to throw himself onto. Martin leapt for the thick branch. It smacked into his gut painfully and Martin gasped as all the air was knocked from his lungs again. His hat slid off as he leant over the branch. Marti tried to catch it as it fell but missed. There was no time to go back and retrieve it, he just swung his legs up onto the branch and then scrambled up the tree. Foot into a gnarl, hand onto a branch. The wet branches were difficult to get a proper grip on but he just clenched his hands even harder, careful to make sure his footing didn’t slip. Up and up and up and up. Not looking back down at the worms or the distant ground, just up and up and up again.

And then a sound cut through the worms horrible squelching. The sound of feet and the muffled wheezing of someone terribly out of breath. Martin felt a horrible mix of hope and terror. Was it Tim? Was Tim okay? Well, not okay, he was probably still being chased by abomination worms but he would be alive. Or could it be Sasha? Martin would be able to… do _something_ to help them _._ He wanted desperately to see another human but that was certain death for them. From up in his perch he could see the shadowy figure of Jane Prentiss on the faraway ground. Martin’s heart stuttered in fear. He was going to die here. He may as well make sure no one else had to meet his grisly fate. Martin opened his mouth to call out to the whoever it was running through the forest to not come this direction when the figure broke through the trees and Martin saw him.

It was Jon. Sweat and rain dripped from his face and he was haggard, staggering from tiredness. Jon spotted Jane but instead of reacting like a _normal_ person by running away, instead Jon staggered over, attempting to be oddly professional. “I’m going to have to insist you leave.”

It was so surreal that Martin just blinked at Jon. He seemed more like a manager asking a tipsy costumer to leave his McDonalds than asking a fairy woman to stop trying to kill Martin. Prentiss also seemed rather taken aback by Jon. “... you… you are the… emissary… of the Court of Watc—”

“You need to go!” Jon insisted standing firmly in front of Martin’s tree. “This invasion will fail once the Watchers retaliate, you are in their place of power. For your own sake, if nothing else, you should leave this place alone.”

“Jon! What are you doing?” Martin yelled, climbing down the tree towards Jon. Something was going to go wrong, he could just tell.

Both Jon and Prentiss turned to look up at Martin. Prentiss made a disgusting sound that could’ve been laughter. “Come to… collect your little… pet? I’m not finished… my fun…”

“Leave!” Jon insisted.

Prentiss cocked her head to the side, more worms falling out her. “… no.” and she sprang forward for Jon.

Jon yelped and instinctively froze, only moving to throw his hands in front of his face. Martin lunged down for the man. Keeping one arm wrapped firmly around a branch, Martin grabbed Jon across the chest and hoisted him up. Jon gasped as he felt Martin’s muscles through the fabric and was lifted from the ground. Martin grunted with the effort but he manged to haul Jon out of the worms’ immediate grasp. It also seemed to snap Jon out of his paralysis and Jon began reaching for the tree himself.

Martin sagged against the trunk as Jon took his weight back but then quickly went back to climbing up the tree away from Prentiss’ worms. He still wasn’t sure how effective this strategy was but for now Prentiss seemed more amused than eager to kill.

“You’re a lot stronger than I thought.” Jon wheezed.

“What was that?” Martin asked Jon as they climbed.

“I—” Jon started, unsure what to say. He obviously really didn’t want to explain.

“Why are you out here?” Martin snapped. “What possessed you to just go sprinting through the forest?”

“I was looking for you!” the words seemed to escape Jon’s mouth.

“You were—why?” Martin asked, genuinely surprised.

“I just—” Jon pulled at his hair in irritation. “I knew you were in trouble and I wanted to—I just—it doesn’t matter!”

“Okay.” Martin said, perplexed. The pair finished climbing, going as high as they dared. They stopped as the branches grew dangerously thin and they sat on opposing branches facing each other

…

Sasha leapt over stones and through thick grass. She could feel mud and water sloshing into her runners but there was no time for discomfort, no time for anything other than running straight ahead. She splashed through puddles and boggy ground, ignoring the creeping wet. She didn’t need to turn around to know that the worms were behind her, chasing her onwards. Primal instincts drove her forwards, the part of her brain that was still a monkey avoiding predators was in full control. Just keep running. The thinking part of Sasha’s brain was preoccupied with strategies to properly evade the damn worms.

Her best shot at getting rid of the horde behind her was the Conventry river. It shouldn’t be too far from here if Sasha’s navigation was correct, and it while it would be wide, it wasn’t too deep in this part of the forest. While worms can survive in water, they can’t swim so if Sasha managed to cross the river, the worms shouldn’t be able to follow. Hopefully. These were evil magic worms anyway. Who knew what they could do? Still it was the only thing Sasha could think to do. She couldn’t keep running forever.

The only good thing was that Jane Prentiss wasn’t chasing her. When the worms had erupted from everywhere (the ground, the trees, Jane’s _skin)_ Sasha had screamed and instinctively leapt backwards. She’d almost tripped over the poker that had spilled out of her small-big bag. When she’d dropped it, its contents had rolled out everywhere. Sasha wished she’d picked up the poker and…

And what? Made her way, unscathed through all the worms to stab Jane Prentiss? A stupid idea unless you wanted to become worm food.

Instead, Sasha had almost lost her balance but managed to recover only to see the worms barely a few feet from her. She’d lost all composure and _ran._ She could remember seeing Prentiss moving in the opposite direction, away from Sasha and towards Tim and Martin. Sasha couldn’t help feeling deeply guilty. It was sheer luck that she’d been further away, that she’d been the one alone, that Prentiss hadn’t decided to deal with her personally and only dispatched a smaller number of worms to take care of her. If anything happened to Tim or Martin, Sasha would never forgive herself. It was just luck. Pure, bad luck.

Still it wasn’t as though Sasha was in a particularly good position, she thought grimly as she swatted away a worm that had managed to grab onto her leg. There was still a very real possibility that she was going to die. She didn’t want to die.

She almost cried in relief when she saw the trees thinning and the Conventry river up ahead. Sasha didn’t hesitate, running straight into it. The river was deeper than she expected and the water snatched at her clothes, pulling her down but Sasha kept running, making huge splashes of water. Pretty quickly the river was up to her waist and she could feel how slowly she was moving through the icy water. Sasha felt several worms hit into her and begin burrowing. Panic rose so Sasha just threw herself forwards and began a frantic front crawl across the river. It was inelegant and involved a lot more flailing than any proper swim but fuck it. Sasha was being chased by flesh eating worms, it did not matter how ungainly she was swimming. What mattered was speed. The river current was stronger than she’d expected but Sasha just pressed on, ignoring it pulling her further downriver. The river stole her hat as her head submerged, whipping it away downstream. Sasha didn’t have time to mourn the loss. Her clothes were so heavy and the shoes made swimming feel unnatural but she kept at it.

Sasha gasped for air as she sloppily dragged herself onto the opposite bank. She panted on her hands and knees, head bent and wet hair spilling out. Sasha ran a hand over her face, wiping away the excess water and looked out at the river. The worms were massing on the opposite bank, swarming and running all over themselves and the nearby trees but they were avoiding the water. As Sasha watched, she saw why. A handful of worms tried to make a leap but barely made it a third of the way across the water and as soon as they hit it, the current plucked them away. The worms were quickly pulled downstream no matter how much they wriggled. Sasha could almost weep with relief before an unsettling feeling in her shoulder reminded her of the pain she’d felt during her desperate swim. 

There was a worm attached to her shoulder, flailing disgustingly. Sasha shuddered as she reached for it and pulled. It felt gooey and rubbery and it was strangely elastic as Sasha pulled at it. She gagged as she did so, tossing the vile thing into the river. The other worms seemed to have been knocked out of her legs by her frantic thrashing and the fast water. 

Sasha hesitantly got to her feet. She was soaked and exhausted, and it was raining heavily now. She’d lost her hat. Sasha wasn’t going to cry but that hurt even more than the worms’ exit marks. Her legs trembled under her as the running and swimming finally caught up to her and she was shivering. She was grateful that it was summer otherwise she’d have to be concerned about pneumonia. God, Sasha wanted to collapse. But she couldn’t. The worms could find somewhere to cross the river, there were stones just a little bit further downstream and if the worms were smart or even a hive mind, they’d know to use it to cross to get to her.

Sasha didn’t want to take that chance and so, began stumbling on through the woods again. She had no idea where she was now, far from any path as far she could tell and she felt incredibly vulnerable. She had nothing to protect her with, everything had been in her bag and now she was wandering the woods alone and as this whole thing had shown, she was not nearly as in control of things as she would have liked. She barely knew what she was doing. Sasha sighed, lost in thought as she walked into a small clearing in the trees and didn’t even think as she went to cross it.

…

Tim ducked and ran through the woods, dodging the trees. He knew that leaving the path just made running harder, he had to be more aware of his surroundings and had less space to run but the main path had been filled with worms. Tim didn’t even know how it had happened. Martin had been pulling ahead of him, Tim hadn’t known how fast Martin could be, and then some of the worms chasing Martin managed to get ahead and suddenly Tim was surrounded by worms. They were in front of him, they were behind him. In that second, Tim had felt his heart go into his throat and his instincts kicked into overdrive and he’d jerked immediately to his left and sprinted off the path.

He needed to get away from the worms obviously but there was no way to outrun them, the worms seemed to be keeping a pretty good pace just behind Tim so he couldn’t assume he’d be able to just run until they gave up, especially as these were damn fairy worms. A phrase Tim had never considered before and was quickly growing to loathe. So, if running was simply delaying the inevitable and not a true escape, what would be? Tim quickly glanced upwards as he ran, snatching a quick glimpse of the sky. The only true escape was up. Worms can’t fly. Therefore, Tim needed to fly. Unfortunately, he’d put down his broomstick just before Prentiss showed up so he’d need to go back to the fairy ring to grab it. So, Tim was going to have to run in a loop back to the fairy circle, not using any main paths and just hope he was going the right direction. It was a good thing he had a good sense of direction, Tim thought sardonically as he ran.

Tim refused to die. He was not dying here, now, to a fucking worm woman. He had so much more he still needed to do. This was why people shouldn’t deal with the _fucking_ fairies, anyone who thought that the fairies were good were already wilfully deluding themselves and sleepwalking into evil and Tim refused to let one of _those_ kill him. If he survived this out of pure spite, then so be it.

Tim twisted off the path and sprinted through undergrowth. Brambles clawed at his skin and Tim winced in pain, letting out a low hiss as they drew blood, still he didn’t slow. He cursed himself for wearing shorts as his blood mixed with the rainwater and sweat flowing down his skin. At least he’d decided not to bring his hat on this little trip. That seemed to have been the one smart decision he’d made today. The rain was cold against his burning skin. His breath was coming fast and shallow and he could feel a stitch growing under his ribs. It fucking hurt. He gripped his side with one hand, his other arms still swinging by his side. God, he didn’t know how much longer he could keep going for. His feet ached and the ground seemed so hard every time they slapped down. But Tim refused to slow or acknowledge his pain, just keep pushing on and on and on. He would get there, he wasn’t going to stop or slow.

Tim yelled in triumph as he saw the clearing up ahead. He forced a new lease of energy into his aching limbs and accelerated. He burst out of the tree line, quickly turning to avoid running right into the fairy ring. He’d come out on the opposite side of the ring, near where Sasha had been. He ran, dodging around all the shit that fallen out of Sasha’s bag. In his haste however, Tim didn’t spot the fire extinguisher and tripped over it, slamming into the ground. He rolled over, onto his back to see the worm horde fast approaching and scrambled backwards, he could see the broomstick, it was _so close_.

The worms too, were so close and Tim yelled as he felt several shoot into his leg. Tim gasped in pain as he felt them burrowing in, there were so many. Shit! Tim collapsed from pain as the worms ate into his calves. Tim suddenly remembered the fire extinguisher just beside him. He grabbed the thing and started to spraying the CO2. If nothing else, he would be able to drown some of the little bastards. To Tim’s surprise, the carbon dioxide was very effective. The worms keeled over dead in just a matter of seconds. Tim didn’t question this and used the gained breathing room to scramble to his feet and run over to the broom.

Tim leant over as he ran to grab the broom, not slowing down. Using his momentum, he swung onto it one handed, his other hand still clutching the reassuring weight of the fire extinguisher. The broom stick started a tad unsteadily and Tim urged it onwards. He pulled it upwards and then soared high, high up into sky, out of the grip of the worms straight into the rain. He closed his eyes to stop any water from getting in and just felt the rain hammer against his face. A wild laugh of relief bubbled out of Tim’s chest as he flew to safety.

Tim allowed himself a moment of trembling solace, the fear crashing through him. If he’d been any slower—no, Tim wasn’t going to think about that. Besides, the battle was far from over. Martin and Sasha were still in danger and Tim refused to let the fairies take anyone else from him.

Tim floated downwards, towards the forest’s canopy and peered through it, looking for worms. He began sweeping over large areas to try and spot the white mass of worms amongst the wood’s dark greens and browns.

…

Jon and Martin sat in an uncomfortable silence, getting steadily wetter from the rain, fully aware of the worms circling their tree. They were trapped. Jon stared down at the ground. “You saved my life.” Jon seemed almost surprised by the revelation.

“I guess?” Martin said. He hadn’t really thought of it.

“Thank you.” Jon said quietly.

“No… no problem.” Martin blushed. They sat in silence again.

“This wasn’t what I meant to happen!” Jon blurted out. “I thought I’d be able to help you but—”

“Jon, it’s fine. I mean I wish you weren’t going to… die.” Martin stumbled over his words but continued on. “But I am … flattered that you’re here to, um, help me.”

“It was…” Jon failed to find an excuse. The only reason he had was the fact that he cared about Martin and wanted him to be alright. But Jon physically could not say that. His pride firmly pushed back against the idea of admitting such a thing because what was the point? He’d just be making himself vulnerable only for Martin to probably not care about him and then—Jon just did not want to, could not want to, admit to running straight into danger for Martin’s sake.

“You can’t say it was nothing.” Martin smiled slightly. “It’s, um, a pretty big something.”

Jon turned away from Martin, refusing to acknowledge the blood rushing to his cheeks. He was very grateful his darker skin made his blushes harder to see.

“Jon? I was wondering something.” Martin said.

“What?”

“How did you know to find me?” Martin asked. “I mean, you said you came to help me… so how did you know I was in trouble?”

Jon opened his mouth, closed it again and considered what to say. “It was- nothing really- I just—a feeling.”

“A feeling?” Martin raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “Is that really what you’re going with?” Jon mumbled something under his breath. “Sorry, Jon, didn’t hear that?”

“Someone told me, alright?” Jon snapped. “And I don’t want to talk about it because it’s none of your business!”

“Who—"

“I don’t want to talk about it!” Jon started wringing his hands in distress.

“Okay, okay.” Martin reached over to Jon, taking the other’s gloved hands in his. Martin looked Jon in the eye. “It’s okay. I won’t ask now.”

“You’ll want to know eventually.” Jon said, looking away, his whole body hunched over.

“I can’t say I won’t.” Martin picked his words carefully. “But I won’t right now. It’s clearly something distressing for you.”

“You… really?” Jon asked, tentative hope colouring his voice. “You won’t…”

“Not if you don’t want me to.” Martin said. “I… I trust you.”

“You trust me?” Jon looked up at Martin in surprise. “Why?” His tone almost seemed accusatory, as though Martin was doing something foolish by trusting Jon.

“Well, you were willing to run straight into danger for me. I think that makes you pretty trustworthy.” Martin said. “Even if it was a very stupid thing to do.”

“Oh, it was such a _stupid_ thing.” Jon groaned, taking one of his hands out of Martin’s to run a hand through his hair. “I thought I could help, and I’ve managed to do _nothing._ ”

Martin didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to be cruel but it was true that Jon had saved no one, instead dooming himself to share Martin’s fate. Martin laughed dryly.

“You know, for a while I thought you might’ve been the person walking in the woods? Isn’t that ridiculous?” Jon didn’t laugh like Martin hoped or even look insulted like Martin expected, instead he looked _guilty._ “Jon, you didn’t—”

“No, I was _not_ the one walking in the woods.” Jon said quickly. “I would never for the Court of Rot.”

Martin wasn’t, contrary to what some people thought, stupid and he could spot all the loopholes in that sentence. “But you have before?” Martin said feeling icy disappointment sink through him.

“It’s—” Jon stared at Martin, eyes wide, swallowing heavily. “It’s complicated.”

“Jon, this is _important_ , are you in trouble?” Martin asked intently.

“You’re focusing on whether I’m in trouble?” Jon asked gobsmacked. “In _this_ situation?”

“Um, well, that’s fair enough.” Martin glanced back down at the writhing sea of worms. “But getting involved with the fair folk is dangerous—”

“I _know_ that!” Jon snapped. “But it’s not—I try not to… but it’s all too tied up.”

Prentiss seemed to tire of toying with them and suddenly the worms rushed them. They surged up the tree and Prentiss was laughing, a horrible sound. Martin snapped off a branch and tried to swat away the encroaching worms. He could Jon’s panicked mutterings as the worms approached. Martin looked back over at him, his hair falling into his face and wanted to cry. They should’ve had so much more time.

There was a sudden sound of crashing branches and a loud battle cry.

Martin looked up to see _Tim_ hurtling from the sky, broomstick clutched between his legs as he plummeted down towards Jane Prentiss. Prentiss managed to turn her head to see him before he slammed something into her head. Prentiss collapsed. The worms all fell still. The ones climbing the tree fell to the ground. He sped on past her, momentum carrying him onwards but he turned his broom into a sharp turn to face back at them all. As he slowed, Martin got a good look at what Tim had used to brain Prentiss. It was, inexplicably, a fire extinguisher. Martin started to laugh out of a combination the surrealness of the fire extinguisher and relief.

“Tim.” Martin breathed out in relief. He slid down the tree and rushed over to where Tim was, wrapping him in a tight hug. “Oh my god, Tim. You’re alive.”

Tim held him tightly. “God, Martin, I was so worried about you.”

“Tim, _how_ did you—"

“Do you know if Sasha—” Tim interrupted.

“—I haven’t seen her.” Martin said, pulling out of the hug. “But, well, it does look like all the worms are dead so she’s probably fine? I hope.”

“We need to find her. I need to make sure—it’s _Sasha._ ” Tim said, worry overtaking his ability to speak coherently.

“We will.” Martin reassured him. “I’m sure she’s alive.”

“Yeah.” Tim said shakily, turning to look at Prentiss. Her body was unmoving and her head looked odd. The wrong shape. The fire extinguisher seemed to have dented her skull inwards. She looked very dead but Martin didn’t want to get any closer to look. “What should we do about…”

“Dispose of the body?” Martin said weakly, remembering the spider-man Annabelle had him help dispose of. The cold he felt had nothing to do with the rain.

Tim nodded grimly. “Burning it’s the best thing, I’d say.”

Martin didn’t respond. He didn’t want to think about dealing with Jane Prentiss, the once human, now dead, woman who’d almost killed him and Tim and Jon. It was just… too much right now. “Well, it’s too wet right now.”

“Yeah, but we—” Tim turned his head to look back at the tree Martin and Jon had been up, finally spotting Jon awkwardly climbing down the tree. Jon cursed as he got stuck.

“Jon, do you need help getting down?” Martin offered.

“No! I’m fine.” Jon snapped, trying to swing a foot around to reach a knot in the trunk and failing miserably. Martin was put in mind of a cat stuck up a tree but too proud to be carried down.

Tim turned to Martin. “Why is _Jon_ here? He’s the last person I’d imagine getting involved in any of this shit.”

“Er,” Martin said intelligently. He wasn’t entirely sure what to say. It was pretty obvious that Jon wouldn’t want Martin talking about his involvement with the fairies or the mysterious figure that warned Jon of Martin’s predicament but on the other hand, Tim was a part of the coven and Jon possibly walking in the woods was a danger that the coven should probably _at least_ discuss. And really, Martin’s duty was to his domain, not to one person. But again, it was _Jon_ and Martin had just told him that he trusted Jon. Did he still trust Jon? Yes. Martin still inexplicably trusted Jon. He didn’t know the details, any of them really but he found he did trust Jon to tell Martin about it when he was ready and he was confident that Jon didn’t have any intent on harming Martin or anyone else. Jon had run straight into danger to save Martin. He couldn’t let that go. It filled him up with warmth especially now the danger had passed. Jon had cared enough about Martin to try to save him.

Tim gave Martin a side look. “What does that mean?”

“Later.” Martin muttered as Jon managed to free his stuck foot and ungracefully dropped down to the ground.

Tim gave Martin a look that confirmed he would definitely be asking him about this later before turning to Jon. “Have you never climbed a tree before?”

“It’s not exactly something I am inclined to do often.” Jon snapped. “It’s juvenile.”

“Seems to have saved your life.” Tim pointed out. “Why were you even out here?”

“I- I wanted to get some fresh air.” Jon said, staring at the ground.

Tim gave Jon a Look as the rain started falling harder. “Fuck it. Sure, whatever, we need to check on Sasha.”

“I’ll, er, I’m going to be going back to Magnuston.” Jon said.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” Martin asked Jon. “Just with everything—”

“I’ll be fine.” Jon said, shoving his hands in his pockets and straightening out his posture into ‘professional’ mode.

“Okay, we, um, should probably see each other at some point?” Martin said.

“Martin, now’s not the time to organise a date.” Tim hissed. “We need to find Sasha.”

“Tim’s right.” Jon said. “I should go.” He walked off. Martin watched him go, conflicted. There was still so much they needed to talk through. Martin knew he’d just barely brushed the surface of Jon’s… everything and even that much was quite a lot. But now wasn’t the time to focus on that, it was time to find Sasha.

Tim sat on his broomstick. “You coming, Martin?”

“Oh, um, right, one second.” Martin walked around behind the tree to where his hat had fallen. He picked it up and buffed it a couple times. The hat pins had fallen out and it was sagging and damp but it was fixable. He waved the hat vaguely at Tim as an explanation before awkwardly climbing onto the broomstick behind Tim. “You know, I don’t think this was what I had in mind when you offered to take me flying.” Martin joked, tentatively.

“Yeah.” Tim said. “You might want to hold on. I’m going to be going fast.”

“Er, okay.” Martin complied, putting his arms loosely around Tim’s chest. Tim took this an invitation to start flying and the broom lurched upwards _fast._ Martin gasped and squeezed Tim in fear as they shot off.

“See if you can spot Sasha.” Tim yelled over the wind.

Martin mumbled something in agreement, shivering in cold and terror as the ground soared away from them. The canopy stretched out below them, wet leaves hanging low. The rain made visibility hard and Martin had to keep pushing the water out of his eyes. Tim just stared on ahead, fixated on his mission. Staring down, made Martin feel a swooping in his stomach. He’d never been scared of heights but the broom felt so flimsy under him. It was only magic holding them up in the air. Still, the fear was muted, overwhelmed by worry for Sasha. Martin did think she was okay, Sasha was frighteningly competent and Prentiss seemed to have been more focused on him and Tim but still, it was hard to stop the panic rising.

The broomstick flew on, Martin and Tim scanning through the branches. Martin couldn’t help but feel that they could easily miss Sasha, especially if she wasn’t moving… He was just about to raise his concerns to Tim when they flew over a gap in the canopy. Below them stretched water, the Conventry river and further down the bank Martin could see something bright yellow.

“Tim, do you see—”

“I see it!” Tim agreed.

Tim dipped the broom down in a sharp descent and Martin couldn’t stop the scream that was pulled from his mouth. It seemed to get lost in the wind or at least, Tim did not acknowledge it. The yellow smudge grew clearer and Sasha’s pale figure grew clearer. He sharply pulled the broom out of its descent and slid off. The broom was still several feet off the ground but Tim didn’t care and landed hard.

“Sasha!” He called out as he stood, starting to run to her.

“ _Tim_.” Sasha cried in relief, running to meet him. The two collided in a tight hug, Sasha burying her head in Tim’s shoulder.

Martin, still on the broomstick floating above the ground, got the distinct impression that there was some history there. Honestly, he was more concerned with how to get the broom down to ground level. He experimentally gripped the end and titled it downwards. The broom dipped horribly and Martin fell off. He landed with a rather painful thump. He was going to wake up tomorrow with so many bruises, a distant part of Martin thought.

Tim and Sasha broke apart at the sound of Martin’s impact and Sasha smiled, relieved. “Martin, you’re okay too. Thank, god.”

“You too.” Martin said, suddenly feeling very empty.

“What happened to you, Sasha?” Tim asked intently. Sasha started to explain her run through the forest and dash across the river. “So that’s why you’re soaked.” Tim laughed a relieved, hollow laugh. Sasha nodded faintly and Tim then began to explain what happened to him but Martin found he just couldn’t engage with it.

He was just so tired. He couldn’t even feel properly happy Sasha was alright. He’d been so scared and now he wasn’t. All the adrenaline was emptying his system and there was no immediate thing to worry about. He just wanted to lie down in bed and sleep. He just didn’t have the energy for emotions anymore. It had all been too much. He’d thought he was going to die. He’d been ready to die. And now it was over.

Well, not quite.

“We still need to deal with Prentiss.” Martin pointed out.

“Right, yes.” Sasha said, running a through her wet hair.

“Pretty sure she’s dead.” Tim said, grimly.

Sasha looked between Tim and Martin, taking in their battered states. Tim was still bleeding from this legs and Martin looked completely wrecked. Sasha was surprisingly put together, Martin thought, apart from being soaked she didn’t have so much as a scratch on her. “Listen,” Sasha said, “I can look after Prentiss. Tim, I think you need medical attention and Martin, well…”

Tim started arguing back at her and Martin couldn’t help but feel a bit taken aback by Sasha’s dismissal of him. “We can look after, Prentiss.” He insisted. “Look, let’s just go, get it done and then we can all go home.”

“Alright.” Tim said. “That’s sounds good.” He gave Sasha another look and Sasha rolled her eyes.

“Let’s go.” Sasha said, leading them off.

The three of them walked through the forest, the feeling of being watched pressing down on them once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus ended Act 1. We are a third of the way through lads. This was a nice long chapter to end the opening arc.  
> Martin *lifts Jon straight off the ground with one arm*  
> Jon *gay panic*
> 
> Jane Prentiss being defeated by Tim caving her head in with a fire extinguisher was one of the first scenes I imagined for this fic.
> 
> Next chapter: Martin's deals with the fallout from the day and gets in an argument.


	11. Chapter 11

Prentiss’ body was already starting to smell when the three of them arrived. It had stopped raining by now but there seemed to be some kind of fluid oozing from her. It was a putrid colour against the grass.

“That’s disgusting.” Sasha said while Martin tried not to gag.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure bodies don’t decompose that fast.” Martin choked out.

Sasha approached the body, kneeling down and looking at the pooling liquid. “This looks like it’s very flammable.” She turned to Tim and gave a faint grin. “Fancy doing some arson?”

Tim sighed grimly and settled down beside her to examine the body. “I would’ve thought it would be too wet and…”

“And?”

“It just feels, I don’t know,” Tim said. “Burning a body.”

“Well we can’t just leave her to rot.” Sasha pointed out.

“Oh God,” Martin said, having a sudden, horrible realisation. “We need to tell her family about what happened to her.”

“Shit.” Tim said, running his hand over his face. Sasha swayed slightly where she stood.

“I- I’ll do it.” Martin volunteered. “She lived in Magnuston, she’s my responsibility.”

“Thanks.” Tim said distantly. “I don’t know if I could…”

“Yeah.” Martin agreed. He stared at what was once Prentiss’ face. What caused people to walk in the woods? Martin couldn’t understand it and now, seeing Jane Prentiss dead, all he could feel was a distant guilt. He hadn’t prevented this. Maybe if he’d intervened earlier, she wouldn’t have become so infected, she’d still be alive. Timothy Hodge would still be alive. Martin closed his eyes. That was another family to tell, another body to burn.

Tim straightened up, hands rifling through his pockets before pulling out a receipt and a pen. “Can’t believe these managed to stay in there.”

“You carry so much crap in your pockets, Tim.” Sasha smiled.

“Lucky us.” Tim said flatly, scribbling a symbol on the back of the receipt. He dropped the scrap onto Prentiss’ body, muttering something. The paper started burning as it fell, when it hit Prentiss, she bloomed into an inferno. The fire spread incredibly fast, heat blasting out.

“Jesus!” Tim cursed, jumping backwards. Martin stared at the burning body. “Did not expect it to go up like that.”

“Like kindling.” Sasha mused.

The three stared in silence as Prentiss burned. The acrid smoke was thick and they had to stumble back away from it They kept a solemn vigil until the fire burnt out. The thick layer of water covering the ground stopped the fire from spreading and, after too long, Prentiss was only ash and bones and the fire died.

Martin let Tim and Sasha deal with Prentiss’ bones and Timothy Hodge’s body. He instead went to go deal with their families. At least he would’ve if Jane’s parents had still been alive. He felt another pang of despair for Jane Prentiss. Timothy Hodge’s parents had at least been alive but Martin had felt terrible trying to tell them what happened to their son and why they couldn’t even have his body for a funeral. Martin left when Mrs. Hodge started hurling abuse at him, tears streaking down her face. Mr. Hodge held her and gave Martin a look clearly saying that he should leave.

So, Martin went home, exhausted, cold and empty. He collapsed straight onto his bed, not even bothering to clean off all the sweat, mud and _other_ fluids. Martin didn’t know how long he spent like that, just lying on top of his bed, staring up at his ceiling but eventually he fell asleep.

…

Martin woke up the next morning, stiff and sore. He raised his head to look around the room groggily. The rising sun’s light had spilled in through the window straight into Martin’s face because he hadn’t bothered to close the curtains last night. There seemed to be a lot he hadn’t done last night, Martin distantly thought, sitting up in his ruffled clothes from yesterday. He hadn’t made himself dinner for one. He also hadn’t washed himself. He just hadn’t had the energy to care about food or hygiene or anything really, he’d been too consumed by horror at everything that had happened.

Honestly, Martin felt almost immobilised by it all. He couldn’t stop seeing the Hodges grief-stricken faces, smell Prentiss’ corpse, hear the writhing mass of the worms. It was too much, all too much. Martin put his head in his hands.

Okay, one thing at a time. He needed get clean. Martin rolled off the bed and stripped out of his slept in clothes. They stank of both sweat and worms. Step two, put on a wash, have another shower and then have breakfast. He just resigned himself to having an early morning. The shower woke him up nicely and brought some level of feeling back into his body. The hot water washing away the clinging memories. He stepped out into the steam and ran a hand through his wet hair. Putting on the fresh clothes was so much more comforting than he expected.

Eating was also good. While Martin felt no appetite and in fact, staring at the toast made him feel slightly ill, actually eating was such a relief. He hadn’t realised just how hungry he was, it had been pushed so far back, that he had stopped even noticing. It felt so good to just sit down and eat. Such a simple task.

Martin checked his phone. Several texts and one missed call from Tim. He’d left a voice mail. Martin listened to it. Tim grimly explained how he and Sasha had burnt Timothy Hodge’s body and then tossed his and Jane Prentiss’ bones into the fairy circle. Sasha had texted Martin a quick update about what was going on. She and Tim had gotten home safely. A small part of Martin that he hadn’t realised was tense, unwound. Safe. She and Tim were safe. Martin was safe.

Jon was safe.

Jon had also texted Martin. Martin desperately wanted to talk to Jon, he wanted some kind of explanation. Rationally, Martin knew that Jon probably was no more ready to talk about the fairies than he’d been up in that tree but still Martin itched to know. He needed to know Jon wasn’t doing something stupid or, even more selfishly, that Jon was a good person. Martin burned with shame as he admitted it to himself, Martin wanted Jon to be good and not involved in anything spooky so Martin didn’t have to feel bad about liking him. Wasn’t that disgraceful? That he wanted Jon to behave a certain way just to ease Martin’s own conscience.

Martin sent off a quick text. He turned back to buttering his toast and was surprised to get a fast response to his message. He hadn’t thought Jon would be awake.

_Jon: If you are available; I believe it would be beneficial to meet as early as possible. There is much we must discuss._

Martin smiled faintly at the message. Only Jon would use a semicolon when texting. He sent an agreement and they arranged to meet in town in half an hour.

Martin used that time to finish his breakfast and brush his teeth. Cleaning out his mouth left Martin feeling more human. He hadn’t realised just how grotty his tongue had felt. Martin stared at his reflection in the spotty mirror. He didn’t have the energy to brush his hair but it wasn’t noticeable. Martin’s hair was thick and naturally flat. He could get away with not grooming it. Martin left his witch’s hat behind; he didn’t quite feel ready to be The Witch right now. He just wanted to quietly exist right now, not beholden to the community

It was cold outside, the sun still low in the sky casting huge shadows. Martin decided to walk into town, padding along the country roads. He walked right up against the bushes. The blackberry bushes’ brambles sometime clawed at his shirt but it wasn’t too noticeable. There were wildflowers growing right up against the road. Huge fuchsia bushes that had to be cut back and bright orange flowers. The colours were so bright, they were beautiful really. Martin needed that. To just see something beautiful.

Magnuston was still asleep when Martin came in. The rising sun’s light cast the shadows on Main Street differently and Martin was struck by how peaceful it was. Birds were shrieking in the surrounding forests and there were some people mulling about, the lights were on in the bakery as the workers set up but overall, the town was empty. It was quiet and it almost felt like a gentle caress to Martin’s shattering soul.

“Hi,” Jon said walking up to Martin.

“Hi.” Martin said softly. “You said you wanted to talk.”

“Yeah,” Jon tugged at a long strand of hair, distracted. “Would… would you like to walk while we talk?”

“Not in the woods.” Martin said immediately.

“I just meant around town.” Jon said.

“Oh… um, sure.” Martin said. The pair of them started to amble down Main Street and then further up the town.

Jon stared ahead, occasionally pulling at his hair in nerves. Martin didn’t say anything. He was still too tired and the morning was too peaceful and he could just tell this conversation would break that peace. For now, he was just content to walk beside Jon, and not think about the woods and the fairies and the woman who was now dead. Overhead, a magpie fluttered, cawing at another pair perched on telephone wires. Martin watched the three magpies scream at each other, a tiny smile pulling his lips.

Jon cleared his throat. “Right, so…”

“Yeah.” Martin agreed. “About all of, um, everything. Explanation?”

“Yes, explanations, those.” Jon said, still not reaching Martin’s eyes. “I- Listen, what do you think is going on?”

“Well…” Martin said, thinking back onto everything that had been said yesterday. “I know that this area is a stronghold for the Court of the Watchers and the Court of the Uncanny. I’m don’t really know what exactly they are, like characteristics, I mean, um, I know what fair Courts are, obviously.”

“Obviously.” Jon agreed.

“I don’t really know where Jane Prentiss fits into it?” Martin said. “The Court of Filth? Sasha said Michael and Helen mentioned it and that it was attempting, what, a power play? Some kind of invasion? I’d guess that Jane was that invasion so I guess it didn’t work? At least, I really hope that’s all it was and there won’t be any more worms…” He trailed off.

“Yes, that’s largely accurate.” Jon agreed. “I don’t know why the Corrupting Court decided to intervene here, but trying to understand the motivations of the Courts is a futile endeavour. Still, trying to break into other Court’s territory is a risky strategy and I doubt they’ll try again any time soon.”

“Jon,” Martin asked tiredly, “why do you know so much about the good neighbours?”

Jon shifted, tugging at his hair again. “I—”

“Cos from where I’m standing,” Martin said when Jon didn’t finish his sentence. “it looks like you’re actively working with them. The Watchers? Jane started saying something about that when you, um, showed up. And like, I don’t want to think you’re working with them, because I don’t think you are and I do trust you but I just don’t know what’s going on.”

“I- It’s complicated.” Jon protested.

“Okay.” Martin said, tiredly. “How is it complicated?”

Jon wrung his hands as he tried to find words. “It—I no longer… it was in the past?”

“Jon, that really tells me nothing.” Martin said. “And _yesterday_ , you were talking to one of them! At least, I assume that’s how you knew you needed to come into the woods _and_ Jane Prentiss called you ‘an emissary of the Watcher’ or something like that.”

Jon decided not to take the out Martin had offered. He could lie and say Basira or someone, had seen the worms and told Jon but he didn’t want to damage the tentative trust Martin was still offering him. But he just _couldn’t_ talk about Elias. “It was one of the gentry.” Jon said quietly.

“Why?” Martin asked.

“Why?” Jon echoed.

“Why would you still be meeting them? You seemed so, I don’t know, paranoid? You were so careful about names, so why choose to associate with them?”

“I don’t _choose_ to do it!” Jon snapped. “Sometimes, you don’t get the luxury of choice.”

“Alright then, you didn’t choose it. I believe you.” Martin said. “But then what is happening? Are you being stalked by the lords and ladies?”

“No.” Jon said. “Probably not, at least. Well, actually, I mean. Maybe?”

“ _Maybe_?” Martin shrieked in alarm. “What does _maybe_ mean?”

“Look, I can handle Elias, that’s my- just leave that alone.” Jon said.

“You want me to leave the fact that you’re being followed by the fair folk _alone?_ ” Martin goggled at Jon. “Jon, I can’t do that. I can help—”

“No!” Jon said loudly over Martin’s protestations. “This is my- I don’t want you to be in danger.”

“Jon, I don’t want _you_ in danger.” Martin reached for Jon’s hand but he stumbled away from Martin. “I’ve been trained to handle situations like this.”

“It’s my fault.” Jon said quietly and then louder. “I don’t want to involve anyone else.”

“Well, that’s- that’s pretty stupid actually.” Martin said, a hint of anger finally entering his tone. “You can’t do everything alone, you need other people to help.”

“That’s not the point.” Jon argued.

“Then what is the point?” Martin was getting seriously exasperated. He wanted to help Jon but Jon was stubbornly refusing to even acknowledge Martin’s outstretched hand.

“Anytime anyone tries to get involved it just—” Jon cut himself off in a mixture of frustration and pain. “And you’re a witch so you’re already all mixed up with the gentry. So don’t act like you’re better than me.”

“I—what does that mean?” The comment caught Martin completely off-guard. It hurt. “Jon, you know me, why would you—”

“—Because every witch goes walking in the woods.” Jon yelled. “All of them, and I don’t know what you’re doing being all nice and taking me out on dates and saying you trust me. It’s really confusing. Martin, I don’t know what you want from me.”

“I want you to not think I’m manipulating you.” Martin said, pain filling in his voice.

“You trained under Annabelle Cane, how can I not think that. How can I not think you’re lying to me? I just don’t know what about.” Jon said.

“Leave Annabelle out of this.” Martin said, defences rising. “Annabelle would never be involved with the Lords and Ladies.”

“Of course, she is.” Jon said it like Martin was being stupid, as though he was trying to explain the Earth’s curvature to a stubborn flat-earther. “She’s one of the most well-known agents of the Court of the Mother. Why deny it?”

“Because Annabelle wouldn’t.” Martin insisted. “Because not all witches are like that. Because I’m not lying!”

“You’re… you’re telling the truth.” Jon said slowly, eyes bright.

“Yes, I am.” Martin snapped. Jon was surprised by the idea that Martin had been telling the truth. Martin couldn’t bear that, just how willing Jon was to think Martin was lying to him, lying about the fairies. Jon assumed Martin was working with them. Martin couldn’t, he just couldn’t let that slide over him. “Of course, I am! _Why_ would you think I wasn’t? What have I ever done to make you think that?”

“Well- well, I didn’t- It wasn’t an unreasonable- you could’ve been.” Jon blustered. “Like I said, Cane is well known for it.”

“Oh, good.” Martin sniped. “That makes _everything_ better.”

“Wait, Martin, I didn’t think this would make you upset.” Jon said, reaching for Martin but this time it was Martin’s turn to pull away.

“Jesus, Jon.” Martin said, turning away. “Why wouldn’t it?”

“It wasn’t my—I didn’t mean—I mean I’m not wrong about Annabelle.” Jon stumbled.

“That’s not the point.” Martin retorted. “The point is you didn’t trust me based on nothing. And I trust _you_ even when you haven’t given me a reason to.”

“I—” Jon’s face was falling into a cascade of regret.

“And you keep insulting Annabelle even when I’ve asked you to stop!” Martin’s voice cracked. “Look, just… just leave me alone.”

Jon looked pained. He looked at Martin, opened his mouth to apologise again and saw the look on Martin’s face. “I—”

“I’ll talk to you later.” Martin said. “But right now, I really just…”

“Right.” Jon said, glancing at Martin again before turning and fleeing the scene.

Martin wasn’t crying but it wasn’t for a lack of feeling. He just couldn’t quite get the tears right. He walked back home, not caring about the awakening town. A car honked at him as it had to veer around Martin but he barely noticed. A hurt void pulled at him.

God, it shouldn’t hurt Martin so much that a man he barely knew didn’t trust him. But it did. It really did. Martin wasn’t always honest but he had been with Jon, completely and almost painfully. Martin had put himself out there for him, putting out his feelings for Jon. He’d told Jon that he’d trusted him and that had apparently counted for nothing. Had he been foolish? Rushing into things with Jon, putting so many emotions in the man’s hands when what had he ever truly done to warrant that?

No, Martin decided, that was unfair. Jon hadn’t asked for Martin’s expectations; Jon hadn’t done anything to make Martin infatuated with him. It wasn’t Jon’s responsibility what Martin felt. And yet, Martin couldn’t help but feel that he deserved better. He had done nothing but be accommodating and kind to Jon even when Jon could be a right dick. Martin hadn’t forgotten that first meeting of theirs. But Martin could tell that Jon hadn’t meant to be cruel, he was just unthinking. Completely unthinking.

Didn’t make it hurt less.

Martin opened his front door and walked inside. Listlessly, Martin sat down in the kitchen staring out at his garden. And then there was everything Jon said about Annabelle. Now that the initial shock had faded, Martin had to admit that Annabelle possibly, _possibly_ having associations with the fairies wasn’t entirely impossible. Annabelle was at times weirdly distant and enjoyed knowing more than Martin. He’d thought that she’d stopped as Martin learnt more, but could he have just stopped noticing it? He liked Annabelle. He trusted her but Annabelle had never made any particularly obvious moves to show she trusted him further than their mentor-mentee relationship. Martin was out of his depth here in Magnuston, he didn’t know about the Courts or how to stop the fairies, he’d almost died yesterday and he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was partially Annabelle’s fault. There was knowledge he should’ve had that Annabelle had just never given to him. Why? There was always a deeper reason with Annabelle. He sighed and glanced over to the ceiling corner where a spider was smugly sat.

“Annabelle, I think we need to talk.” Martin told the spider. The spider didn’t react but five minutes later, Martin’s phone began to ring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Presidential Alert: Uh oh, the boys are fighting  
> Jon can be extremely tactless, especially when he thinks he's right. He doesn't mean it but that doesn't mean it's not still hurtful.
> 
> Next chapter: Martin's not good, very bad day, gets even worse


	12. Chapter 12

Martin answered the call. His whole body had gone still as soon as he heard the ringtone, bracing for whatever was going to happen.

“Hello, Martin.” Annabelle’s cool voice came through the speaker almost unnaturally clear.

“Annabelle.” Martin greeted.

“Seems like you were in a spot of bother.” Annabelle said.

“Yeah,” Martin agreed.

“Lots of worms.” Martin could practically hear Annabelle wrinkling her nose. “Vile creatures.”

“Keeping an eye on me?” Martin asked.

“Hmmm, I wouldn’t call it an eye, but yes.” Annabelle hummed. “I like to monitor my… “

“Projects?” Martin said bitterly.

“I was going to say associates.” Annabelle said. “You’re in a rather tetchy mood Martin, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, well, almost being eaten alive by worms will do that to you.” Martin ran a hand through his hair tiredly.

“Yes, that was… unfortunate.” Annabelle said. “I am glad you are alright.” Martin sighed. Annabelle was just like that, unable to properly express concern. Her emotions were always hidden underwater and Martin had to try interpret the surface ripples.

“It was Court business. The Court of Filth, I believe.” Martin said, waiting for Annabelle’s response.

Annabelle paused, considering her next few words. “They are a nasty lot.”

“I agree, and you know, Annabelle, it made me think about some things.” Martin said, straightening his back and squaring his shoulders. “Like the Courts, and why I don’t know much about them.”

“Ah.” Annabelle said.

“So,” Martin said, all angry politeness, “would you care to elaborate.”

“You are assuming that I know more than I taught you.” Annabelle said idly, probably twirling spider string between her fingers as she did so.

“I know that you know more.” Martin stated, leaving no room for arguments. “I know that witches know more about the fai—lords and ladies than I do and I know that you chose not to tell me.”

“Very well. I knew this day would come,” Annabelle said, “but I will confess, it came sooner than I expected. Well done Martin.”

Martin bristled at the condescension but pushed it aside. Annabelle had always been like that and there was no point in getting annoyed at her. “So, the Courts?”

“Right, right.” Annabelle was infuriatingly flippant. “So, I take it you are now familiar with the Corrupting Court?”

“Intimately.” Martin’s mouth twisted.

“Of course,” Annabelle sounded amused. “They don’t have particular territory, they just slip between other Court’s domains, always looking to expand, to corrupt. And I imagine you know of the Court of the Watchers and the Court of the Uncanny?”

“Not, quite.” Martin admitted. “I know they’re in power around here, and I think I can probably guess what the Court of the Watchers do. They seem to be fighting here.”

“Correct.” Annabelle said. “The Court of Strangers and the Watchers are constantly pushing each other back and forth along the border near Conventry. They’re very deeply entrenched. It’s all to gain control of the Torn Ring. That’s the rather large ring I believe you encountered. It’s a very open end into our World, so whoever controls it, controls a lot of the access between the Otherworld and here.”

“Do you know anything about it? Why it’s so big.” Martin asked, it wasn’t the most pressing issue but he still needed to know more about it. Having an apparently infamous fairy ring in his domain was incredibly alarming and he couldn’t believe he didn’t know about this before now. Actually, he _definitely_ could believe that.

“I heard some human tore through the border there, oh say, two centuries ago? I don’t really care to know the detailed histories of other domains.” Annabelle said dismissively.

“Right, right, that’s not important.” Martin said, determined to stay on track. “What are the Courts of the Uncanny and Watchers like?”

“Oh, well, I’m sure you can imagine.” Annabelle said vaguely. “The Watchers watch and learn and take people.”

“They take people?” Martin squeaked, running through everyone in town, had anyone been vanishing? Apart from Jane Prentiss. That heavy thought slapped Martin in the face and he sagged.

“Martin, all Courts take people.” Annabelle’s voice was remarkably careless for what she was saying. “The Court of the Beholden has been more active in recent centuries, taking poets and artists, all those creative types, of course, that’s hardly unique. The Court of Delusions and Illusions has a particular tendency to taking artists, painters and the like.” Annabelle paused. “The Watchers have a particular fondness for researchers too I heard. And actually, keeps them, collecting a whole group of them for its perusal. The Usurping Watcher, I do believe is behind this shift. “

“What’s the Usurping Watcher?” Martin latched onto every piece of information Annabelle gave, desperate to get a proper grasp on the precarious situation he’d unknowingly walked into.

“I can hardly say I know much about him.” Annabelle shifted slightly to get into a more comfortable position before continuing. “He’s in charge of the All-Seeing Court, has been for some time, I think. I don’t know where the name comes from, but I’m sure you can deduce the kind of being he is with an epithet like that.”

“Courts have rulers? I thought they were… some kind of monolith?” Martin asked.

“A hive mind?” Annabelle sounded almost amused. “Some are. The Corrupting Court is like that but every Court? No. Some are more anarchic like the Court of Delusions, some are more structured, _hierarchical,_ like the Watchers… and the Uncanny actually.”

“Yes, the Uncanny. What about them?” Martin pressed.

“Ah, that one’s more interesting than the Watchers.” Annabelle said. “Far less organised—”

“But you just said—”

“Alright, I should clarify. There is a command structure but individuals are still somewhat free to whatever pleases them. They don’t tend to have a long running, cohesive plan, there’s no rules, not in the way the Watchers enforce them. For the Uncanny, there’s no rhyme or reason to who they take or how they take people. Sometimes they replace them, sometimes they just steal them, really it depends. I think they have some connection with music, dancing, performance. All that kind of thing. They’re gearing up for something, I think.” Annabelle mused.

“You think?” Martin asked flatly. Annabelle didn’t mention something if she wasn’t certain about it. Saying that she ‘thought’ it was true, was just Annabelle trying not be completely obvious that she wanted the listener to enquire more. Martin was tired of having Annabelle’s manipulation tactics used on him, especially when he was so used to seeing her use them on those she perceived as dimwits. Then again, Martin would hardly be surprised if Annabelle thought herself smarter than everyone else.

“Yes.” Annabelle said simply. “I’ve heard the Uncanny Queen is planning _something_ to win the war with the Watcher’s once and for all.”

“You don’t know what that move is, do you?” Martin realised, putting it together. “That’s why I’m here, you wanted me to stumble around until I found out just what the Court of the Uncanny was doing. And- and don’t deny it. I might have chosen to come here but I _know_ you. If you wanted me to go somewhere, you’d find a way to send me there.” His hands were trembling with anger.

“That… that may not be entirely incorrect.” Annabelle admitted.

“Oh, good then.” Martin’s throat was constricting. “Good to know I was just, what, some experiment?”

“No! I mean not entirely.” Annabelle exclaimed. “I did take you on as an apprentice for legitimate reasons, and I did over time, grow a certain kind of fondness for you.”

“But?”

“But I chose not to tell you about the Courts to see what would happen.” Annabelle confessed. “And when you told me of your intentions to move to Magnuston, I did see an opportunity there. Not least because there are no witches in the area to disrupt my… test.”

“Annabelle…” Martin trailed off. What was he even supposed to say? He was so angry. He felt like someone had taken a knife to his chest. Did anybody actually care about Martin? Was everyone he cared about either using him or suspicious of him? Oh, that’s just Martin, stupid man, a useful pawn but nothing more. Why did he even expect anything better?   
He pulled himself back to the conversation, anger promoting him to continue his interrogation. “Annabelle, I’m going to ask you one last question and you are going to answer it honestly.”

Annabelle didn’t respond and Martin took that as a go ahead, not that he would’ve listened to Annabelle trying to weasel out of it. “What’s your relationship with the lords and ladies?”

Annabelle was silent for so long Martin wasn’t sure she hadn’t abandoned her phone for more pleasant tasks but finally her voice cut through the anticipation. “Collaborative.”

“Right.” Martin swallowed. “Right. And you not telling me, was…”

“A part of the experiment, yes.” Annabelle confirmed. “As far as I’m aware, all witches have a, to varying degrees, symbiotic relationship with at least one Court. Many do… walk in the woods, yes.”

“So then what was the bloody point of everything you taught me?” Martin spat. “Was that all made up?”

“No, everything I taught you was accurate.” Annabelle said. “Including everything I said about the duty of a witch and philosophy.”

“What? The whole ‘freewill doesn’t exist’ thing?” Martin wasn’t sure where that fit into this.

“No. I mean yes, freewill is fake but that’s not what I meant.” Annabelle took a breath, collecting her thoughts. “I don’t not think that it is a witch’s duty to help people, help the helpless, protect the innocence, all that sentimental nonsense. I am simply… _more pragmatic_ about it than you are. Sometimes you must allow the web to ensnare one so many can escape. Witches monitor the Lords and Ladies relationship with the human world, keep a look out on what’s going on in the Otherworld and see how it affects the community. And that does mean letting them have their way some of the time. And other times, it can occasionally mean assisting them. Diplomacy.”

“That’s... that’s _wrong._ You shouldn’t just willingly sacrifice people just because it might stop the neighbours from taking more people! You definitely shouldn’t help them.” Martin exclaimed.

“Well, it’s been working so far.” Annabelle sighed. “The best is the enemy of the good, after all.”

“These are people we’re talking about!” Martin snapped. “You can’t just talk about it like you accidentally burnt dinner.”

“Martin, what do you want me to say?” Martin could picture the way Annabelle spread her arms out in exasperation. “You wanted to know about the realpolitik as it were, and now you don’t like the answer. I’m sorry to say, but this is just the way it is.”

“It shouldn’t be though.” Martin whispered angrily. “Just because a situation has always been awful doesn’t mean we should just accept it!”

“Martin, you know that most witch magic is derived from the Lords and Ladies?” Annabelle sighed. “Weavings come from the Mother’s Court, flying broomsticks come from the Court of the Great Endless, Scrying from the Watchers, it is an inextricable part of being a witch, Martin. You cannot simply ignore it.”

“I—” Martin faltered. “I’m not ignoring anything but you _are_. You’re ignoring the human cost.”

“I’m being practical.” Annabelle said.

“You’re being callous!” Martin yelled. “God, all that time you spent in your house, I thought you were just reclusive, but you just didn’t care. I’ve heard the way you talk about people, they aren’t real to you, just pieces in whatever game you’re playing and, for some reason, I deluded myself into thinking I was an exception to that!” Martin’s voice broke.

“You are an exc—” Annabelle stopped. “I do not think you are in the right state of mind to discuss this.”

“Stop being evasive, Annabelle!” Martin snapped, ready to launch into another indictment of her philosophy.

“No, I think we should end this now.” Annabelle spoke over him. “You need some time to cool off.”

“Annabelle—” Martin started but she’d hung up on him. Martin stared down at his phone. She’d just hung up on him with barely any warning. That simply. Like she was brushing aside a tiresome dog. As though by simply exiting the conversation, she wouldn’t have to deal the bombshell she’d dropped on Martin. That she had been deliberately manipulating him for the hell of it, that he hadn’t really mattered to her. Did Martin matter to anyone? Annabelle had just been toying with him, Jon had never trusted him, his mother—

Martin cut that thought off. He didn’t want to think about his mother. Couldn’t think about her right now, not on top of everything else. Everything felt like it was falling apart, the bottom was pulled from his worldview and everything was crashing down around him. Martin wanted to help people. That was all he’d ever wanted, from when he was young to wanting to help his mother and then when that wasn’t possible, being able to care for a whole community. He just didn’t want people to be hurt, was that so much to ask?

It seemed so. His vocation wasn’t anything like what he’d thought. Being a witch so far had been gritty and hard and apparently his whole belief in what he was doing was unfounded. Oh sure, witches may help their domain, but their real purpose seemed to be acting as a fulcrum for balancing fairies’ destruction and a sense of normality and that wasn’t what Martin wanted! He didn’t want to simply minimize suffering, he wanted to actively stop it.

But then how well had his attempt at stopping suffering gone?

Mr. Hodge’s trembling jaw and Mrs. Hodge’s frantic tears drifted to the forefront of his mind. He couldn’t save Jane Prentiss or Timothy Hodge, he couldn’t even save himself. If it wasn’t for Tim, he’d be dead right now. And so, would Jon. Now Martin couldn’t help but wonder whether Annabelle would even have intervened if that scenario had played out in Annabelle’s domain. If Jane Prentiss had come to Annabelle for help, would she have been deemed a necessary loss to appease the fairies?

God, Martin felt sick. Appease the fairies. He felt slimy even thinking it. And it seemed that witches got their powers from the fairies, from appeasing the fairies. Doing deals with them. Or at least, that was how the techniques were first gained, Martin had never asked a fairy for assistance. He couldn’t stop thinking about Annabelle standing in front of a circle and giving herself to the Mother’s Court. The image of long spidery legs reaching out to her kept playing in Martin’s mind. If Annabelle hadn’t decided to use him as a game, would she have insisted he become acquainted with the fairies? He would’ve said no, Martin was confident he would’ve said but then what? Would Annabelle have kept needling him or would she have tossed him aside and try again with a different apprentice.

Would Martin even be a witch now if Annabelle had decided to be up front with him? Martin didn’t like to consider that. What else would he have done if he couldn’t become a witch? Send out hopeless CVs? End up working in the local Aldi until he died? Martin was a school drop out with no marketable skills, what was he supposed to do. Martin hadn’t wanted to become a witch in the same way people wanted to become any ither career. But when Annabelle came down from her hilltop house, and introduced herself to Martin, how could he not jump at the opportunity? His mother was becoming too difficult to care for by himself, he was getting into such a mess of lies just to keep food on the table and here was Annabelle, descended from on high to offer him all the help he could need.

Was that where the game began? Had she looked at Martin, desperate and trusting, and decided he would be good fun. Did Martin have any of the qualities that made a good witch? And what did that even mean, being a good witch? What Martin had thought was the goal of his work was apparently built over a faulty premise. Would a good witch be someone who embraced the fairies more, be more powerful, more callous in their dealings with people? Martin’s brain still kept shuddering to a halt because witches, all witches, walked in the woods. Martin wanted to cry. What was even the point in trying to go forward? The whole world had come crashing down around Martin.

Daisy had been right, Martin suddenly thought. He hadn’t thought about the angry woman in days and yet now she floated to the forefront of Martin’s mind. She had been operating under the assumption that all witches collaborated with fairies. It could’ve been simple prejudice but could it be that Daisy had known a truth that even Martin hadn’t known? She probably had previous experience with a witch who actually knew what was going on.

The only witch Martin knew to have been near Magnuston was Gertrude Robinson. Martin didn’t truly know anything about her other than her secrecy. She definitely could’ve been just another witch who danced with fairies to the loss of humanity. Just like Oliver and Mike and Annabelle and everyone else Martin had thought had dedicated their lives to helping people.

What about Tim, Martin suddenly thought, Tim who was self-taught and who viscerally hated the fairies. Tim couldn’t be dancing with the fairies. Annabelle had said there weren’t any witches in the area, either she didn’t know about Tim and Sasha or didn’t consider them to be proper witches. Martin assumed, and hoped dearly, it was because of their ignorance, that they didn’t know that apparently an integral part of witchcraft was associating with the very things they were supposed to protect people from. Tim and Sasha were, for want of a better term, free. They were free to be witches whatever way they wanted to be.

Martin couldn’t help but feel jealous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Martin is going through _a lot_ right now. Poor sod. Things will get better for Martin but not all at once.
> 
> Next chapter: Martin goes outside again and unlocks a character's backstory


	13. Chapter 13

Martin didn’t leave his house for the next three days. He wouldn’t necessarily describe it as wallowing in self-pity, he just couldn’t do it… Couldn’t do what, Martin wasn’t entirely sure but he felt as though he was running on half the usual energy and the idea of talking to people dragged at him. Even answering texts was hard. He felt bad about how much he left Tim on Seen but it was just _so_ hard. He’d read the messages and have nothing to say. The effort it would take to properly respond was simply too much. He did eventually get around to texting back but Martin was aware his responses were clipped. Mostly, he spent his time gently pootling around the house, cleaning out spiderwebs, staring into space and making lots of cups of tea. Unfortunately, he kept forgetting about the tea midway through drinking and ended up leaving mugs all over his cottage.

When Martin was feeling more inclined towards work, he would knit. Someone in Norfolk had commissioned a queen-sized quilt in blanket two colours in blanket stitches. It was soothing to work on something so methodical. It was simple. And knitting wasn’t apparently evil, as far as Martin was aware. He also spent a lot of time with his plants. He’d put up a small window box and ended up putting herb cuttings into it to start new growths. But other than simply watering them, Martin didn’t put too much effort into his care, only doing minimal trimming and not even bothering to weed the flowerbeds.

He couldn’t stop thinking about, well, everything. The fact that his purpose was built on a lie, that a woman he’d cared about seemingly hadn’t seen him as anything more than an experiment and the man Martin liked had accused Martin of lying and manipulating him. It was all just a lot. Too much to try to think about. Separate to the destruction of Martin’s worldview was the sheer horror he felt every time he remembered what had happened in the forest.  
He kept seeing the worms out of the corner of his eye and when he tried to sleep, he saw Timothy Hodge writhing on the ground. One night he accidentally burnt the pork chops he was cooking. The smell of burning meat made him gag as all he could think of was Jane Prentiss’ burning body. Aside from that was the heavy weight of guilt that pulled him down and made getting out of bed so hard.

On the third day, Martin completed his commission and had to mail it off. Martin mustered himself together and went into town. He left at four o’clock. He’d meant to go earlier but somehow time had slipped past him as he sat and stewed in his thoughts. It had just been so hard to pull himself together for going out. Still he felt good about actually leaving the cottage and getting a simple errand done. Still, he was so tired. Martin left his hat at home. He didn’t know if he would ever be The Witch again, but he definitely couldn’t right now. Honestly, if he could just be invisible to everyone until he needed to talk to them, that would be wonderful.

Martin hung back in the post office as Rosie finished dealing with a woman’s post, idly chatting to her all the while. “Ms. Patel, I really hope your application goes through. You deserve the promotion, dear.”

“Well, we’ll see.” Ms. Patel smiled grimly. “It’s bloody daft that they want the form physically. They know I work remotely.”

Rosie clucked her tongue in agreement. “Well dear, I’ll see it gets to London by tomorrow. Overnight express.”

“Rosie, that’s very sweet of you but unnecessary.” Ms. Patel said. The pair continued to debate the need for a further few minutes. There was something nice about listening to a friendly, low stakes conversation. Just people existing around Martin, not requiring anything from him, not being angry or distressing, just chatting. Martin had never considered himself a people watcher but he was starting to understand the appeal.

Ms. Patel and Rosie seemed to settle on some agreement and she left after the pair exchanged what Martin could only label ‘the white middle age women goodbye ritual’. Once Ms. Patel left, Rosie smiled at Martin. “Hello Martin dear.”

“Hi, Rosie.” Martin said walking up to the counter.

“You seem a bit down.” Rosie said all concern.

Martin snorted dryly. He must look truly exhausted for Rosie to immediately pick up on his mental state. “Things have just been a bit… difficult recently.”

“I understand that dear.” Rosie reached out and squeezed Martin’s shoulder. “Everyone seems to be going through a bit of a tough patch. I mean dear Noami’s fiancé died and the poor Hodges.”

“Yeah.” Martin kept himself very still and very deliberately not thinking about Mr. Hodge taking his wife’s trembling hand.

“I’m always here for a cup of tea and sympathy, Martin.” Rosie reassured him.

Martin put on a dim smile. “Thanks, Rosie.” He pulled the blanket out of the paper bag he’d carried it in. “I need to get this to Norfolk. Doesn’t need to be express or anything.”

“Oh Martin!” Rosie’s eyes lit up as she took the blanket. “This is simply lovely. God, the stitching is so precise. Martin, this is wonderful. I’ll have to wrap this up in bubble wrap, wouldn’t want anything to damage it.”

“But it’s a blanket?” Martin pointed out. “How could it be damaged?”

“Oh hush,” Rosie said, pulling out the bubble wrap. “We don’t want to be taking any chances with this masterpiece. I tell you Martin, I simply adore your work. A true master of your craft.”

Martin blushed and awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck. It hadn’t even been a particularly complex pattern. “Thank you.”

“You must work so hard on these.” Rosie continued gushing. “I’m going to have to commission you for something. Just such wonderful work.” Martin just nodded numbly, a tender flame of pride burning abashedly in his chest. No one ever really complimented his knitting. He knew he was good at it, good enough to live off commissions but still it was completely different to watch someone you were almost friends with sincerely compliment and appreciate your work compared to strangers’ digital reviews.

Rosie didn’t take Martin’s silence as discouragement and continued nattering away. She talked a bit about poor Naomi Herne “she’s grieving, poor girl, become a bit of recluse, haven’t seen her since the funeral, poor dear,” and Amy Patel “terribly brilliant woman, very observant, I do hope she gets that promotion, she really does deserve it,” and a whole host of other townsfolk. Martin was distantly glad to hear the Andre Ramoa seemed to be doing a lot better recently. “-and Elias is back in town. He’s an odd one really. Terribly charming mind but just a tad strange. Again, not to speak ill of the man, he’s always been awfully cordial when I talk to him, still he spends very little time in town, especially for someone who owns so much land around here.”

“Elias?” Martin said, his brain snatching at the name. He was certain Jon had said that name during their confrontation. When Martin had been _trying_ to offer Jon help with the fairies, Jon had said he could handle it. Handle ‘Elias’ whoever that was. Sure, it could just be a coincidence but what if it wasn’t?

“Oh yes, Elias Bouchard. Do you know him?” Rosie asked, all bright and helpful.

“No,” Martin said carefully, “not personally.”

“Ah well, like I said, terribly polite man.” Rosie said, sliding the thoroughly bubble wrapped blanket into brown packaging. “Owns quite a few of the houses in town. Family inheritance apparently. But he’s not around too much. He’ll just sometimes pop by for a few days, check up on everything and then leave again. It’s all very mysterious.” Rosie said the last part in a delightedly conspiratorial voice.

“Right.”

“He tends to take quite an interest in goings on.” Rosie said. “Seems to have his ear to the ground, knows even more gossip than I do and that’s no small feat.” Rosie let out a tinkling laugh while something cold filled Martin’s veins. “He cares… I think. Is that everything then, dear?”

“Yeah, that’s all.” Martin said, trying to process the sudden influx in emotions. “Thank you, Rosie.”

As Martin left the post office, a deep feeling of unease filled him. Martin didn’t know anything about ‘Elias Bouchard’, really but the scarps he did know made him deeply concerned. The way Rosie talked about him just made him sound like some eccentric landlord but the fact that Jon mentioned him when he was talking about the fairies made Martin scared. Every innocuous comment Rosie made about Elias checking up on things took on a sinister meaning when the connection between Elias and fairies was made.

But what was Elias? Martin hadn’t put too much thought to Jon’s fairy issue, he’d been too consumed by wondering what the hell Martin should do about his own conundrum, whether there was anything Martin could do, so Martin hadn’t theorised much about Elias. Still, if pressed, Martin would’ve assumed that ‘Elias’ was just a pseudonym a fairy had been given like Michael and Helen. It was such a human name that it was unlikely to have been chosen by a fairy. But then Rosie spoke about Elias as a decently regular visitor to the town, owning _property_ in town even. Fairies don’t just casually cavort about in the human world. They certainly didn’t bother with petty human things like rents or surnames. So, what was Elias? Could he have been once human and now acted as some kind of emissary from one of the Courts? Maybe he was who Martin was supposed to negotiate human-fairy relations with, Martin thought hollowly. Or maybe there was a human called Elias Bouchard and a fairy Jon had dubbed Elias by sheer coincidence. But that theory felt wrong to Martin.

Martin sighed and pushed it away. He knew he should be investigating it further, shouldn’t allow it to fester like Jane Prentiss had but Martin just couldn’t right now. He didn’t want to try and theorise what Jon was keeping from him, he just wanted Jon to tell him. He wanted Jon to tell him what was wrong, apologise for hurting Martin and start trusting him. But that wasn’t fair for Martin to ask of him. He couldn’t force someone to trust him, he wasn’t owed that as much as he felt he was. Martin couldn’t just expect Jon to spill his whole history to him and as for apologising… well, Martin did still want that but he wasn’t quite sure what he wanted Jon to apologise for. For insinuating things about Annabelle? Well, he turned out to be completely correct in his assessment of Annabelle. For not trusting Martin? Considering what Jon seemed to know about witches, Martin could understand why Jon had been suspicious of him.

Martin pushed onwards. He didn’t want to think about Annabelle because thinking about Annabelle would make him think about home and then think about his mother and then he’d cry and it would be really awkward for everyone so he Was Not Thinking About It. Or Jon.

Instead, he looked up and stared down the street. Brew-witched’s green canopy caught his eye. A simple tea would be nice. Basira didn’t seem like the type to really press him if Martin seemed down. Martin ambled in, placed his order with the waitress on duty and went to sit down right in the corner and began scrolling on his phone. Martin’s Instagram was chronically lacking in updates. He only posted pictures about every six months. Still it wasn’t as though people really followed him. He mostly used it for memes and pictures of animals. He’d considered taking one of the poetry books off the shelves but it reminded him too much of poor Timothy Hodge chatting to him about the books.

“Here’s your tea.” Martin looked up to see Basira sitting down opposite him as she put the tea down.

“Oh, Basira, you don’t need to—” Martin started to protest.

“It’s my lunch break.” Basira dared Martin to call her on the fact it was half four and she had no lunch in front of her. Martin caved under her stare.

“Alright then.” Martin said, acquiescing.

“So,” Basira said, distinctly more awkward than Martin had ever seen before. “I take it you dealt with the, uh, Jane Prentiss situation?”

“Yeah.” Martin stared at his tea. “She’s dead.”

“Ah.” Basira said. The pair sat in silence, thinking until “I take it Timothy—”

“—Also dead.” Martin cut her off. “And there was nothing I could do, or maybe there was but I just didn’t think to look until it was too late and they were too far gone and now they’re dead. They’re dead and there aren’t even bodies to be buried!”

“Woah, calm down.” Basira said, interrupting Martin’s increasingly fast ranting. “Calm down.”

“I _can’t_.” Martin’s voice was getting dangerously high. “I’ve been a terrible witch! Or at least, I would’ve been if witches weren’t just—”

“Martin you need to breathe.” Basira said firmly. “Breathe first, then explain _calmly_ what you are talking about.” She reached over put her hand on his arm. The weight of it was surprisingly reassuring and Martin let the pressure pull him back into reality.

“Okay.” And Martin told Basira hesitantly, in spurts and with frequent stops about Jane Prentiss and Jon. He hadn’t really meant to tell Basira about Jon but he’d accidentally let it slip that Jon was in the forest and then Basira’s exhausted ‘oh, he would’ and her intense stare convinced him that it was in Martin best interest to be as honest about what happened as humanely possible.

“Right.” Basira said once Martin finished explaining how he then went to talk to Timothy Hodge’s family and attempt to talk to Jane Prentiss’.

“I just don’t know what to do.” Martin confessed. “I feel like I’m supposed to just bounce back to work but then I—well, I just don’t know if I can.”

“Why not?” Basira asked with the brutal pragmatism of someone who was confident that everything they did was fully justified.

“I just… learnt some things about being a witch and I don’t… I don’t know if I can go back to it.” Martin confessed to his tea. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I mean if you were already being a witch wrong, why not keep doing that?” Basira said. “Just continue doing what you were doing before.”

“I don’t know if I can.” Martin said. “It feels tainted. Like I had this whole idea of what kind of person I needed to be and what kind of legacy I was upholding and I was proud of it but now I just don’t—I can’t endorse it. I can’t endorse being a witch.”

“I mean I never really endorsed being a witch.” Basira said.

“What?”

“Yeah, had some… past experiences with one. It’s not really too important but I already knew witches aren’t generally benevolent.” Basira said. “That’s why you surprised me. You cared.”

Martin didn’t really have a good reply for that, he simply mutely nodded his head. “I’m not really anything special.”

“Maybe. But you could just do what you were doing, keeping an eye on the good neighbours, helping out, all that, just don’t have to call yourself a witch.” Basira said. “Call yourself a concerned citizen as it were. I know a couple people who do that.”

“Yeah.” Martin said. A week ago, Martin would’ve eagerly tried to press Basira for more information about the ‘concerned citizens’ but the thrill of it had left Martin. Still, there was an appeal to the idea but it didn’t change just how completely off-balance he’d been thrown by learning something so core to his image of himself was wrong. Even simply stepping into the duties he’d had beforehand wouldn’t heal the newly formed crack in his worldview. “I also...” he trailed off.

“You also don’t know how to feel about Jon?” Basira completed. That actually wasn’t what Martin had been going to say but he was happy to take the out. Even if the out was to another painful subject.

“Yeah… it’s just complicated?” Martin pulled at his sleeve. “Because I trust him, I want to trust him, but he doesn’t trust me and he won’t tell me anything about whatever happened to him. Or is happening to him?”

“Yeah, he’s pretty secretive like that.” Basira’s tone made it clear she didn’t necessarily approve of this fact.

“Look, you’re his friend,” Martin said to her. “Do you know if he’s, I don’t know, in danger?”

“As far as I know, no. He’s not.” Basira said slowly. “Or actually involved with the gentry.”

“But—”

“Alright, amending that. Not willingly involved.” Basira interrupted before Martin could point out _everything_. “Jon… is a very suspicious person but he’s… he tries to help people.”

“It’s not about him being suspicious.” Martin said. “I- I do trust him, I just wish I knew _why_ he was so secretive. I want to help him.”

“Do you?” Basira asked. “Is that all this about?”

“…no.” Martin admitted. “I… it upset me that even though he was being incredibly suspicious and evasive about _everything_ I still trusted him but he never considered doing the same for me. He thought I was lying or something and it just… it hurt.”

“Jon doesn’t really trust easily.” Basira said. “I don’t either, frankly, so it never hurt me.”

“Well, it hurt me!” Martin snapped and then sagged, defensiveness leaving him as quickly as it had first come. “I don’t even know if I can be angry because he was right about Annabelle and witches.” He said this very quietly, more to himself than Basira.

“I mean he may have been right about that, but he was wrong about you.” Basira pointed out. “And I think he really regrets even implying that you were, I don’t know, evil?”

“How do you know that?” Martin said dourly.

“Because you’re not the only one who comes in here to talk about their love life.” Basira said wryly.

“Oh,” Martin said quietly. “So Jon’s…”

“Yeah, he misses you. I think.” Basira said. “He tends to repress everything.”

“Right.” Martin said. He wasn’t really certain how to respond to that. He’d sort of known that Jon was apologetic, Jon had tried to say he was sorry during their argument but Martin really hadn’t been in the space to accept that. But if Jon came up to Martin right now and said that he was sorry and that he trusted Martin? It would be… nice. But Martin knew he couldn’t just ask that of Jon. It wouldn’t be fair. “So, um, does he trust you?”

“I don’t know.” Basira said honestly. “I think so. I trust him.”

“I mean, that’s good.” Martin said hesitantly. Basira just shrugged.

“I can tell you why I trust him.” Basira offered.

“Okay.” Martin said.

“I have a… _friend._ Known her for years.” Basira started.

“You can say girlfriend.” Martin snorted. “We were just talking about my crush on Jon, I don’t think you need to worry about—”

“No, it’s not that.” Basira said. “It’s just we’re… not. Dating, I mean.”

“Oh, sorry, just the way you said it made me think—”

“I know and I’m not really sure if ‘friends’ is the right term but, well, Daisy and I, we just don’t really do romance or that kind of thing.”

“Right.” Martin’s ears were burning and Basira now looked pretty uncomfortable. He’d just wanted to tease her a little but had accidentally walked into what seemed to be something of a sore spot. “Sorry.”

Basira nodded in acknowledgement. “Right so, Daisy. You know the Wild Hunt?”

“Of course.” Martin said, slightly insulted. Everyone knew about the Wild Hunt. Keep your children inside on Hallowe’en night, lock your doors and pray the Hunt passes soon. They were the savage riders who drove dogs and horses after any prey unfortunate to cross their path. Martin was not looking forward to having to keep the Hunt out of Magnuston. Or would he even be doing that? He’d thought it was a witch’s duty but was that true? And even if it was, could Martin act as a witch? Martin pushed away that little crisis and focused on Basira’s words. Although, thinking about the Hunt reminded Martin of Daisy and her focus on Hallowe’en. He was pretty sure that Basira’s Daisy was the same woman which was interesting. Daisy was probably one Basira’s ‘concerned citizens’.

“Well, something that isn’t very well known is that sometimes the Hunters take humans, not as a quarry but as a kind of companion. It’s not too common but if they take an interest, then it can happen. And they took an interest in Daisy.” Basira sighed heavily. “This was years ago, before I met her, she was still in Abedare. She worked in law enforcement back then, actually. She quit after some kind of disagreement. Anyway, the 31st, she’d been on duty all day and was going home late when she thought she saw something suspicious off the road. So, she left her car and went off the road and got snatched up by the Hunt.”

Basira paused, drumming her fingers on the table. “She never talks about that night, all I know is that she still has the callouses from the running. Daisy always managed to stay ahead of the Hunt and I’m sure there were plenty of other victims to distract them from seizing her. Regardless, Daisy managed to out-run the Hunt. I suppose it must have impressed them and so they Marked her.

She didn’t know this, how could she? She just went back to life as usual. Perhaps with a bit more aggression than before but she didn’t think there was anything truly wrong. Until next Hallowe’en when she went back into the forest. I need to stress that this wasn’t voluntary. She wasn’t in control of her limbs, just pulled to the forest by some utterly foreign hunger. And guess what was waiting for her?”

“The Wild Hunt.” Martin felt so cold.

“Correct.” Basira scowled. “She wasn’t to be hunted, oh no, she was to be a hunter. Run alongside the other hunting animals, help make the kills. She wasn’t the only human there. At least, she always said there were others who looked human. I wouldn’t be surprised if most of the hunting animals of the gentry were once human. She can’t control herself like that. She says it’s like being possessed by some kind of wild animal. When the sun rose, the spell would be broken and she’d always find herself just outside her house.

And this happened every single Hallowe’en.

When I met her, this had been going on for a couple years. She’d left Wales by then. We, well, you actually don’t need to hear about that.” Basira’s tone made it clear Martin wasn’t going to ask about whatever had gone on between them. “Anyway, we ended up moving here and it didn’t matter where we were, Daisy would always be pulled away by the Hunt.”

“I know it must have been horrible, but if it was only one night a year, wasn’t there anything you could do to stop it?” Martin asked.

“It didn’t matter how many precautions we tried, and we tried everything, tied her up, knocked her out, locked her in a room, she always got out. The one time I tried to physically stop her, it didn’t…. it didn’t go particularly well. And it wasn’t just the night of hunting. The way she would be during the hunt, it was slowly infecting her. We could both see it happening but there was nothing we could do.”

“But you did manage something.” Martin said. “I mean, I doubt you’d be telling me this if something didn’t change.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Basira said. “Jon helped Daisy. I still don’t know how he knew what was wrong. The pair of them had gotten into a fight. Well it might be more fair to say Daisy was threatening him.” Basira shrugged as though Daisy threatening a man was business as usual. “Anyway, as we’re leaving Jon just asks if she ever been a part of the Hunt. It was really blunt to be honest and I had to stop Daisy from punching his lights out. He was so skinny, I think she could’ve broken a bone by accident.

But then Jon elaborates, says he knows how to help her. I’ll admit I was very suspicious of him but at this point we were desperate. We needed to find some kind of solution and if things went sour, I was confident in Daisy’s ability to get us out of there. So, on October 30th, Jon took us down south to a witch, Karolina Gorka I think, anyway, they had this… _coffin_ and Jon told Daisy to climb inside the coffin.”

“And she did?” Martin asked, stunned. Where ever he’d thought this story was going to go, this was not it.

“After a lot of arguing and I mean, _a_ _lot_. It lasted three hours before Daisy eventually agreed to go into the coffin with Jon.” Basira sighed deeply, shadows falling over her eyes. “She was in there for three days. The idea was she’d spend Hallowe’en in there and if she didn’t come out for the Hunt then the spell would be broken. We both threatened Jon with bloody murder if this went wrong but Daisy went it. Jon went down with her.”

“How did they both fit in a coffin?” Martin asked. “I mean, I assume this isn’t a normal coffin but…”

“Yeah, it definitely wasn’t a normal coffin. I got a good look inside before they went down and there were stairs just going into the ground, leading to somewhere that definitely wasn’t normal underground.”

“It was like a weird cellar entrance?” Martin tried to clarify, not quite understanding.

“No,” Basira shook her head. “We could’ve picked that coffin off the ground and the stairs would still be leading underground. It was, honestly, I have no idea what that coffin was. Karolina said she managed it, whatever that meant. I watched Daisy and Jon walk down into that coffin and then close it behind them. They had room to spare.” Basira stopped speaking, tangled up in her memories.

Martin waited patiently until it became clear that Basira needed some kind of prompting. “So? What then happened?”

“They came out on the third day, November first. God, I’ll never forget how Daisy looked.” Basira stopped again. Martin could tell that this was something very personal and didn’t quite know how to proceed. Basira squared her shoulders and moved on. “Anyway, it worked. The past two Hallowe’ens, Daisy’s spent at home.”

“That’s… that’s really good. Good for her.” Martin said, a little bit unsure what to say in response to the story. It was certainly interesting and did explain some things about Daisy. Martin was very confident that the Daisy he’d met in the forest and Basira’s Daisy were the same person, not least because of her fixation on Hallowe’en, a fixation that now had an explanation.

“The point is, Jon knew what was wrong and how to fix it.” Basira said. “He… he made an offer and made good on it. He can be a bit of an idiot when it comes to… most common sense really, but he does know what he’s talking about when it comes to the good neighbours.”

“I hope he does.” Martin said quietly. “I really hope he does.”

The pair sat in silence, Martin drinking his tea and Basira staring out pensively. Eventually Basira left Martin and went back to work. Martin just kept thinking about Daisy who hated witches and fairies and yet had been helped in a way Martin would’ve considered witchcraft and about Jon going out of his way to help a woman he’d just met. Just like he’d gone out of his way to help Martin, rushing into the woods he knew were full of danger just to try and save Martin. It was damn reckless but Martin’s heart fluttered at such… what? Care? Kindness? Selflessness? Jon was so compassionate, it nearly took Martin’s breathe away to realise. He cared so much about people but kept it buried down below awkwardness and a bristling exterior because he couldn’t trust people. Martin wanted Jon to trust him so badly, to value and believe in him but what had Martin truly done to earn that trust?

Martin had never really talked to Jon about actually important things, he’d given Jon no real indication of just what Martin thought and believed in. It wasn’t too shocking that Jon, someone who knew about witches’ connection to the fairies, didn’t immediately trust Martin when Martin didn’t really give him any of himself to trust.

In that moment, Martin realised he was ready to talk to Jon again. He’d still like that apology but he was ready to see if they could move forwards again.

Martin pulled out his phone to text Jon and instead saw a message from Annabelle Cane.

_Just if you were interested, the Wild Hunt is one of the fourteen Courts. It doesn’t truly have a territory, weaving around the other Courts, all it cares for is the chase. It’s very destructive in that way, the Court of the Chase._

Martin sighed and turned his phone over. He glanced around until he spotted the spider on the wall. He glared at it until it sheepishly scuttled away. If he’d wanted Annabelle spying on him, he would’ve called her. Martin leaned back in his chair and then began packing up. He had quite a bit to think about and it wasn’t for Annabelle or even Basira.

It was for Jon.

_Hey, Jon, just wondering if you’d like to talk?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Queer platonic Daisira rights! 
> 
> Next chapter: Presidential Alert, the boys are communicating! Also the coven assembles again.


	14. Chapter 14

Martin closed the cottage front door and wiped his feet on the welcome mat. He slipped out of his runners, leaving them beside the rest of his abandoned shoes that guarded the hall. The wooden floor was cool beneath his feet and Martin felt like he was properly seeing the cottage properly for the first time in days. Cobwebs were gathering up in the corners and he needed to hoover the floor as bits of fluff and general detritus had built up while Martin had been distracted. It hadn’t yet reached a stage where Martin felt it was absolutely urgent but it was still satisfying to clean.

Martin spent the next few hours vacuuming and then mopping the whole of the bottom floor. He then spent some more time attacking the spiderwebs. Even though he knew they were from Annabelle, Martin couldn’t bring himself to hurt the spiders and whenever he came across one, he carefully carried it outside to his garden. Periodically, Martin checked his phone to see if Jon had texted back but his message remained resolutely unread. Well, at least he wasn’t being left on Seen, Martin supposed. Small mercies. He did receive several messages from the coven group chat as a meeting was arranged for tomorrow.

By the time Martin finished his cleaning it was nearing seven o’clock and Martin turned his attention to the fridge and potential dinner. The past couple nights he’d subsisted off his emergency microwave meals but Martin was feeling marginally more human now after Rosie’s delighted reassurance and Basira’s careful discussion. Martin now felt as though part of his twisted feelings had been teased out. It had given Martin an unexpected but deeply welcome burst of energy that he decided to channel into some proper cooking.

He pulled out a large pot, filled it with water and salt and set it to boil. Martin took out a tin of pasta and measured out a portion in a bowl and left it beside the pot, waiting for the water to be properly boiling. He put a pan on a different hob and poured a small bit of oil in to make sure the meat didn’t stick. He had a chicken breast all ready to be chopped up into cubes and then cooked. As the chicken was sizzling on the pan, Martin retrieved the tomatoes from the fridge. He took his small jar of oregano from the spices cupboard over the hob and settled back to just enjoy the cooking process, stirring the chicken.

It was just as Martin was pulling leaves off his basil plant on the window sill, that his phone started ringing. Martin jumped slightly at the unexpected sound and then fumbled for his phone on the kitchen counter. It was Jon.

A mixture of excitement and utter terror filled Martin. He hadn’t exactly expected Jon to call. He’d thought he might text and they could organise a time to meet up and so Martin would have another day or so to prepare but no, there was Jon right there. Martin had only some snatched seconds to try to compose himself before the phone rang out, and he couldn’t let it ring out, what would Jon think then? He had to talk to him now, right now.

“Hi, Jon!” Martin said into his phone both too loudly and at too high a pitch.

“Martin.” Jon’s voice was equally strained but Martin was inclined to put it down to the way phone calls alter voices.

“Isn’t it so strange how phone calls can affect how people’s voices sound?” Martin said. Why had he said that? Why in the ever-loving fuck had he said that. Martin wanted to hang up the phone and start again. This was going to be a complicated and mature discussion and Martin just said _that_. What the hell was Jon supposed to take away from that? It wasn’t as though Martin wasn’t still angry at Jon and now he’d completely messed up the tone of this call.

“Um, quite.” Jon said, restraining himself from explaining how the audio of most calls were compressed thus lacking higher and lower frequencies so companies could save bandwidth. “I-I didn’t think you wanted to talk to me.”

“I didn’t- then, I mean.” Martin stumbled. “I just… I needed time to really, I don’t know, think it all out. You know?”

“Yes.” Jon said. “And you have, um, thought it all out now?”

“Well,” Martin sighed, poking the chicken with his wooden spoon. “some of it. I’ve had a lot on my mind. Not all of it about you- god, that sounds rude.”

“No?” Jon said. “It wasn’t really, and Martin I really wanted to say I’m sorry.”

“Oh.”

“I- you have been nothing but good to me and I shouldn’t have accused you of just manipulating me, I don’t even know what you’d be manipulating me to do.” Jon said. “I know that you wouldn’t do that to me. And I’m sorry for accusing you of it and then not understanding _why_ that would be upset. And-And to keep saying things about Annabelle even after you asked me not to.”

“I- thank you, Jon.” Martin’s free hand was trembling and he made an effort to keep his voice steady. “Thank you. I… I needed to hear that.”

“It was wrong of me to accuse you—”

“It’s okay, Jon.” Martin interrupted him. “I was pushing you and you weren’t… you weren’t entirely wrong.”

“What?” Jon breathed, freezing in shock.

“I just meant,” Martin said in an overly steady voice. “that you were right about Annabelle.”

“Oh!” Relief flooded through Jon at hearing that Martin hadn’t secretly been manipulating him. “Well yes. Um, I’m sorry. That was probably not a pleasant revelation.”

“No.” Martin agreed. “It really, _really_ wasn’t.”

“Do you, um, want to talk about it?” Jon offered.

“Honestly?” Martin laughed darkly. “Not really. That’s a whole other set of emotions I’m not ready to touch yet. But I know that I probably should.”

“If you need to talk about it, I’m here?” Jon offered.

“I appreciate it, Jon, I really do.” Martin said, pouring the pasta into the finally boiled water. “It wasn’t… It gave me a lot to think about, like I didn’t have enough already.” Martin finished rather bitterly.

“You didn’t know…” Jon said.

“About witches? No.” Martin said, chopping tomatoes aggressively, the phone tucked between his shoulder and his ear. “It was… it was a shock. I just- It was just that I’d really built myself around the idea of being a Good Witch and that was what I was working for, it was what I’d been working towards for years and what I thought my whole future was going to be dedicated towards and now I know that… it was all fake. And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now, I’ve lost whatever life goals I had and basically all faith I had in my work so what- what am I supposed to do? _How_ am I supposed to move forwards?” Martin was almost crying by the end. Actually putting all those nebulous feelings that had been poisoning him into words was so much harder than he thought it could be.

“I don’t know what you can do.” Jon said softly. “I don’t know how people are supposed to bounce back once your world is shattered. When- when I came back, I didn’t know… everything was different, everyone was different and it was like I was only allowed a small period of time to feel that change and then I had to be better. But I wasn’t better, I didn’t know how to be. Because everything I thought I knew about _everything_ was wrong.”

“God, that sounds terrible.” Martin said.

“Honestly, I still don’t know what I’m doing.” Jon admitted. “I feel like I can’t plan for a future because I don’t know if I’ll even have one.” He said that last part very quietly.

“You will have one!” Martin said, suddenly impassioned. “Jonathon Sims, I will make sure you have a chance for a future no matter what. I won’t let that be stolen from you.”

“Martin… I- you don’t even know…” Jon weakly protested.

“You’re right.” Martin agreed, calming down. “I don’t know what happened to you, I don’t know your past but I don’t think I need to know the details to know _you_ , Jon. I might not know everything about you, or even know you too in depth but-but I know that you’re intelligent and selfless and reckless and wonderful.”

“Martin, I’m really not that special of a person.” Jon said.

“I mean I think you are.” Martin said and then immediately blushed furiously.

“Martin, I…” Jon said, unable to properly respond. Accepting compliments was antithetical to his nature. Sincerity was difficult to react to. “I also think you’re… good.” He winced in embarrassment.

“Thank you.” Martin said quietly, stirring the cooking tomato sauce. “That’s, um, nice to hear.”

“Yeah…” Jon said awkwardly. They fell into a silence, Martin idly cooking while Jon just sat and thought. “So, what are you doing at the moment?” Jon finally broke the silence.

“Oh, I was just cooking myself dinner. Nothing too complicated.” Martin said. “Just tomato and chicken pasta. Do you cook?”

“Yes.” Jon said and then elaborated at length on his opinions of the proper way to cook. As far as Martin could tell, Jon’s culinary philosophy regarding the act of cooking as both a scientific undertaking that required great precision but also as some kind of competition seemingly against the universe in general or maybe the ghost of Jon’s grandmother who said _once_ Jon couldn’t make a proper biriyani. Jon went on in detail about his rather specific food opinions. Apparently rum and raisin was the best ice cream and parsley was utterly pointless and tasted bad anyway.

“I didn’t think parsley even tastes of anything.” Martin laughed after hearing that one.

“No, no, it _does._ And that taste is bad.” Jon insisted.

“But it’s so negligible.” Martin said. “I mean, I doubt you’d notice it unless you ate straight parsley.” There was a rather pregnant pause where Jon did not deny it. “Oh my god, you ate plain parsley.”

“It was very late and Georgie bet that I wouldn’t do it.” Jon admitted.

“Wait, she made a bet about you eating parsley?” Martin was a bit confused by this. “I mean I’d never eat just a sprig of parsley but it’s not so hard that someone would make a bet about it.”

“It, um, might have been a bit more than a sprig.” Jon said very sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment.

Martin laughed out loud and almost dislodged the phone from its precarious perch and he poured the pasta out into the colander and then into the sauce. Jon’s own embarrassed chuckles came through the phone’s speakers tinnily. Martin smiled as Jon attempted to defend himself and put his dinner into a bowl, settling down at the kitchen table. “It would be nice to cook together some time.” Martin suggested nervously.

Jon paused, and Martin clenched his muscles, hoping that he hadn’t overstepped, that whatever possible bad blood there had been between them had been washed away. “I would like that.” Jon said quietly.

Martin smiled in relief and the easy conversation rolled on.

…

Tim was tapping his foot when Martin arrived to the coven meeting. He seemed incredibly antsy with dark bags under his eyes and messy hair, like he’d been running his hand through it. He’d left his broom leaning against the café’s wall. His clothes were ruffled and, all in all, he looked a bit of a mess.

“Tim, are you okay?” Martin asked.

“Fine.” Tim snapped. “Things have just been…” He sighed. “I have things I want to talk about.”

“Is your domain alright?”

“It- no.” Tim ran his hand through his hair, messing it up further. “It’s not _terrible,_ not yet. But it- I’m worried.”

“Do you think there could be another Jane Prentiss?” Martin gulped, heart rapidly increasing in tempo.

“No—maybe? I don’t know.” Tim said. “That’s the worst part, I don’t know what’s going on or _how_ to deal with it. I just- I wanted to know if you and Sasha are having similar, I don’t know, problems.”

“I haven’t been too active recently.” Martin confessed. “After Prentiss, I was, um, a bit out of it.”

“A bit out of it?” Tim echoed.

“Yes.” Martin said defensively. He didn’t really want to talk to Tim about the weight that been pressing onto him, the emptiness and tiredness that had filled him horribly.

“You okay?” Tim asked, looking straight at Martin in concern.

“I… I don’t know.” Martin said, avoiding eye contact. “I mean are any of us okay? We all nearly died last week and well, things weren’t great after then. Jon and I, we had a fight. I mean it’s okay now but it was a lot. And…” Martin paused, he wasn’t sure if he should say anything about Annabelle and what he’d learnt about witches. Alright, he could admit that wasn’t quite true. He knew he should tell Tim and Sasha but selfishly, he didn’t want to revisit it. He didn’t want Sasha to ask the questions Martin was already asking himself or see Tim become angry at the deception.

“Yeah, I was actually wondering a bit about Jon,” Tim said. “why was he in the forest during the Prentiss… incident?”

“I- he was—I mean, does it matter?” Martin stuttered, unprepared for Tim’s questioning.

“I mean, yeah?” Tim said sharply. “If we have another person walking in the fucking woods for the neighbours, that kinda matters.”

“I mean, I wouldn’t say he’s dancing.” Martin mumbled.

“And the way you’ve reacted is pretty weird, Martin.” Tim said. “Look, I don’t want to be suspicious or angry at you, but if you’re hiding something—”

“Okay, fine!” Martin interrupted Tim. “Jon has some history with the lords and ladies. He hasn’t told me what but he says he isn’t involved with them now and I… trust him.”

Tim gave Martin a long look. “That’s it? You know he has some history dancing—”

“We don’t know if it was dancing.”

“—and you’re just going to trust him?” Tim ignored Martin’s interjection to stare at him, searching his face for something. “Fine. For now, I’m going to let you handle whatever that is but Martin, don’t let your feelings for him distract you if he’s dangerous.”

“You know, you and Sasha were both encouraging me to date him.” Martin was annoyed now. “I _distinctly_ remember you telling me to—”

“Oh, for god’s sa—that was before I thought he might be _dancing_.” Tim snapped in exasperation. “You know that makes a difference.”

“It would if Jon was dancing.” Martin said. “But he’s not.”

“Fine. _Fine_.” Tim threw up his hands. “But don’t expect me to be okay with this.”

“You jumped _very_ fast to thinking Jon could be walking in the woods.” Martin said. “Why?”

“I just—” Tim cut himself off, pausing to think through his words better. “Look, we didn’t know about Prentiss until it was way too late. If we didn’t just so happen to be at the circle that day, what would have happened? She could’ve gone off to hurt who knows how many people and that would be on us. We almost didn’t stop her because we were too distracted with god, I don’t know. So I’m keeping a bit more an eye out especially with all the damn circles popping up everywhere.”

“There have been more circles?” Martin asked, concerned.

“Yeah, it’s been—” Tim stopped and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Where is Sasha, she’s late.”

“I mean, she was late to our last coven meeting.” Martin pointed out.

“Yeah, by like two minutes.” Tim said. “I just wish she’d show up so we could get started.” Martin just shrugged vaguely and leant against the café wall. The view was just as good as the last time they’d had their meeting here. The forested valley spread out before them and if Martin turned his head, he could see the stretch of foggy moor.

Almost as though she’d been summoned by their conversation, Sasha and her bike came into view. She pulled up beside them at a great speed, breaking sharply in front of them. “Were you waiting for me?” she grinned.

“No.” Tim and Martin lied together.

Sasha cocked her head to the side as she locked up her bike. “Really now?” she didn’t wait for their reply, just confidently walked into the café. Tim hastily followed behind her, shoulder’s hunched and generally radiating an aura of anxiety. Martin took a second to glance back at the forest Sasha almost seemed to emerge from before heading inside.

Tim and Sasha had already secured a window table and Sasha was just finishing ordering afternoon tea as Martin sat down. “So,” Sasha said once the waiter left. “what was so urgent as to require a meeting now? I mean, something’s clearly bothering you Tim.”

“Yeah, I was just telling Martin now, but there’s been this increase in the neighbour’s circles appearing.” Tim tapped his foot against the ground as he spoke. “I tend to monitor rings in my domain, like to snuff them out as soon as the emerge but they’ve been coming a lot faster and I can’t see why.”

“Could it just be the approach to Hallowe’en?” Martin suggested. After all, it was late August now, the countdown to Hallowe’en was steadily ticking away.

“I mean _maybe_ , but no, I don’t think so.” Tim said. “It’s never just increased like this before.”

“And Hallowe’en is still very far away.” Sasha said.

“Yeah, and it doesn’t normally get like this even in October.” Tim said. “It just feels like something is actively eroding the barrier between worlds. And I can’t think _what._ ”

“And when did this start?” Martin asked. “Was it something you’d noticed before or—”

“No, it’s definitely started recently.” Tim said. “After Prentiss.”

“Could it be,” Sasha said thoughtfully “that Prentiss did something to the barrier between the worlds here? The Rotting Court pushing through weakening it?”

“ _Maybe_.” Tim rubbed his hand along his face. “I just don’t know. Have either of you noticed anything like this?”

“No.” Sasha said. “I haven’t really been having any problems in my domain.”

“Must be nice.” Tim snorted. “I’ve already had to stop a person from being made dance. Not walking in the woods dancing, I mean the kind were the neighbours _force_ them to dance until they finish their fun. Most people end of dropping dead from exhaustion. It’s sick.”

“Oh god, that’s awful. I hadn’t heard of that.” Martin said.

“You can always tell when it’s happening by the music.” Tim said dully. “It’s… it’s not like proper music. It’s like if someone took apart everything that makes something music, sharpened all those pieces and then tried to reconstruct a song from it. It just doesn’t sound right.”

“I’m sure the other music you hear in the woods sounds much more natural.” Sasha laughed.

“Not the point.” Tim mumbled.

The group fell into a silence only broken when the waiter returned with the plate of scones and teapot. Sasha happily helped herself to the scones and Martin followed suit after a pause. He’d always had a tendency to stress eat. Either stress eat or be too stressed to eat entirely. Martin poured Tim a cup of tea before moving onto Sasha and his own.

“So, you haven’t seen any new circles cropping up?” Tim asked again more for reassurance than inquiry.

Sasha shook her head before sipping her tea. Martin also made a noise of disagreement. Whatever problems he’d been dealing with, new fairy rings weren’t among them. “Sasha, do you want any milk or sugar for your tea?” Martin offered.

“Oh no, I’m fine. Thanks, Martin.” She flashed him a quick smile. “Well, if that was all we had to report—”

“No!” Martin blurted out. Tim and Sasha turned to look at him and Martin wished he could shove the words back in his mouth but what was done was done. And he did owe it to them, they did need to know about witches. “I just, well, you know how I mentioned that I’d had an argument with Jon?”

“If this is just about your relationsh—” Tim began but Martin cut him off.

“No, it’s—that’s my business anyway— no, what I—Okay so,” Martin started again, “one of the things we fought about was, well, he said something about Annabelle being connected with the Court of the Mother and I thought that was impossible because Annabelle was a witch, a good one I thought and she taught me to be what I thought was a good enough witch so we argued…” Martin stared at his tea, the steam rising up to fog his glasses.

“And?” Sasha asked after a while. “You said, this wasn’t just about your relationship.”

“Yeah.” Martin pushed his glasses up his face as he looked up again. “Yeah, so I called Annabelle and we talked.” And Martin told them about his conversation with Annabelle and all the unsettling details he’d learnt. “So yeah, I guess witches weren’t exactly what we thought they’d be.” Martin said clumsily, still unsure how to emotionally approach that revelation. He looked down again at his tea and took a sip while Tim and Sasha sat there processing.

“Fuck.” Tim swore eventually. He then let out several other swears and smacked the table in anger. Martin could feel the heads of everyone else in the café whipping around to look at their table. Sasha also seemed to notice and reached forward.

“Tim, calm down. You don’t want to make a scene.” She said.

“Make a scene?” Tim laughed in angry despair. “How is that what you’re thinking about?”

“Maybe I don’t want to think about everything else” Sasha hissed, “but either way, you getting us kicked out of here is going to help nothing, so calm down.”

“Martin, you’re sure about this?” Tim said, turning to Martin with intense eyes.

“Of course, I am.” Martin said. “I wouldn’t be telling you if this was just some half-baked theory.”

“Why didn’t you tell us sooner?” Tim said, switching between conflicting desires.

“It’s not like it was something I could casually put in a group chat.” Martin snapped. “ ‘Oh, really liked that meme Tim, by the way, witches are actually generally agents of the lords and ladies and act as some kind of arbitrary judge of who gets to be eaten by the Otherworld.’ Is that what you wanted?”

Tim let out a gruff noise of anger and pain. “You know it isn’t. I just—I wanted—fuck I don’t know.” He put his head in his hands. “It’s not as those I didn’t suspect that it happened.” Tim said quietly. “A few of the witch accounts I’ve read definitely made it seem—but I thought it was the exception to the rule not the rule itself—I mean, I just thought that we were…”

“A part of a noble tradition?” Martin suggested.

“Fuck. Yeah, that.” Tim said, leaning back up again. “It’s sounds so bloody naïve when you say it out loud.”

“We couldn’t have known.” Sasha said calmly. “It sounds like Martin was being manipulated, you didn’t have anyone who could tell you and as for Gertrude,” Sasha paused. “I always knew she wasn’t telling me everything. I guess I just didn’t think this was it.” Sasha sighed, tilting her head to the side tiredly, disrupting her straight hair. “What are you going to do now?”

Martin sighed. That was the question, wasn’t it? That was what everyone seemed to expect him to have an easy answer to and he just didn’t! Well, not everyone. Martin felt a spark of affection for Jon who understood just how lost he felt right now and wasn’t trying to push Martin to just know what to do now. “I don’t know.” Martin answered Sasha.

“I’m going to keep burning circles.” Tim said at almost the same time. “Just because other witches play nice with the neighbours doesn’t mean I have to. I can be my own kind of witch.”

Sasha nodded slow and understanding. “That makes sense.” Martin hummed along in agreement, watching Tim’s reaction.

The momentum that had led Tim to his declaration seemed to have left him and his face crumpled again in a mixture of pained emotions. “I think I need to go.” He said.

“Oh no, are you okay?” Sasha asked, concerned.

“I just— I need to be by myself to just think about some… stuff.” Tim said, standing to leave.

“I understand.” Martin said, recalling the solitary days he spent after gaining that information. “Just… Tim.” Tim paused and turned back to look at Martin. “We… we’re here for you, yeah?”

“Sure.” Tim said dully. “Thanks, Martin.” And left.

Martin turned back to Sasha munching on a scone, staring out the window in deep thoughts. He sighed and leaned back against his chair, joining her in contemplation. He was rather glad she didn’t seem to want to talk to him about witches, quite frankly, he didn’t want to talk about it either. If Tim found it so easy to just reclaim witchcraft, good for him but Martin felt almost as though there was a barrier between him and the title now. Maybe Sasha would also continue being a witch, but that was her decision and not one Martin had any intention on pressing her on right now.

Martin stared out at the forest through the window and wished Jon was with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PARSLEY IS BAD! There I said it! Oh yeah, and also the boys are communicating, aren't we proud of them?  
> Also this is the beginning of Tim having a Bad TimeTM.
> 
> Next chapter: Both Martin and Jon entertain guests.


	15. Chapter 15

The weather was mediocre, with thick clouds interspersed with clear pools of sky. The air was still with little wind and Martin was gardening. He was only doing simple maintenance work, deadheading roses, weeding the flower beds and trimming back the bushes. Martin wanted to get through his maintenance in good time as he was going to be meeting Jon in the afternoon. He’d already finished mowing the lawn, a task he despised, and was now engaged in a fight with the ivy. Martin quite liked how ivy looked, but he despised how it grew. The damn thing grew all over everything and if he left it alone, would probably try to pull down the cottage’s gutters. Martin generally didn’t do too much pruning, he liked to let his plants grow wherever they wanted but it was necessary to intervene to prevent them from choking each other and the ivy was a damn menace.

Martin glanced up as he thought he heard a far-off sound. He strained his ears to hear better and yes, there it was. A muffled knocking on his front door. He stood up, brushing dirt off his trousers and walked around the side of the cottage to the front.

There was a woman standing in front of his door, one hand still raised uncertainly. She had a small build and mousy hair hung lankly down her bank. She looked tired. She was probably here to speak with The Witch. Martin let out a tired breath, and steeled himself. A selfish part of him wanted to go back to the back garden, pretend he didn’t know she was there and not have to confront the discrepancy between what she expected from him and what he felt able to provide. But no, he couldn’t abandon her to whatever problem had drawn her to him. He had to help and even if it was just as Martin Blackwood, he’d still do his best.

“Morning.” Martin greeted her as cheerfully as he could manage. The woman turned to him and Martin got a better look at her face. He vaguely recognised her, it nagged at the back of his mind. He’d seen this woman before but he had no idea where.

“Morning,” The woman said, brushing hair over her shoulder, “are you Martin Blackwood?”

“Yes.” Martin said walking over to her, pulling off one of his gardening gloves to offer a hand to shake. She took his hand.

“My name’s Naomi Herne.” She said. Naomi Herne, Martin knew that name, it was the woman Rosie had gossiped about several times. The one who used to have a fiancé. And suddenly Martin remembered where he’d seen her before, in Brew-witched. She’d looked like she’d been crying heavily and that was right around the time Rosie said her fiancé had died. Oh god, how was Martin supposed to handle this? Should he offer condolences? Probably not, they’d never talked to each other and he couldn’t even remember her fiancé’s name. Oh, she was still talking. “…and I wanted to talk to you about something that happened to me.”

Naomi didn’t look directly at Martin, looking more at a point over Martin shoulder. She was holding her arms in a defensive position. Everything about her looked like she was uncomfortable and but was actively holding herself together to do this. Martin could sympathise. “Would you like to come inside for some tea?”

Naomi relaxed a fraction. “That would be nice, thank you.”

Martin led her inside the cottage, pausing as she automatically wiped her shoes on the welcome mat. “Do I need to take off my shoes or…?” Naomi asked.

“Oh no, it’s fine.” Martin told her. “Whatever makes you comfortable.”

Naomi nodded and just continued following Martin into the kitchen. He went over to fill the kettle and gestured to Naomi to sit at the kitchen table, which she did obediently. She seemed stressed so Martin made the executive decision to provide mint tea. It had soothing properties. Hmm, the sage tea could also be a good idea. When he asked her, Naomi said she had no preference so he settled on the mint as he had a new mint plant growing on the kitchen windowsill.

Martin put a small plate of biscuits on the table while waiting for the kettle to finish boiling. “Please, help yourself.”

“Thanks.” Naomi said distractedly staring out the window to the garden.

“It’s a bit of a mess back there.” Martin rambled. “I was just doing some gardening when you arrived, not that you were interrupting, it wasn’t anything urgent. Anyway, just deadheading the roses. Gotta keep the bush healthy, you know? It always feels counter-intuitive, cutting off the flowers so they’ll grow back better but if you leave them to rot, it just hurts the bush in the long term.”

The kettle whistled as it reached boiling and Martin filled two mugs of mint tea. He brought them over to the kitchen table, passing one over to Naomi and sitting down opposite her. “So, you wanted to talk to me about something?”

“Yes.” She said slowly, body tense. “I… I’m not asking for help. I just feel like you should know about this. Just, in case someone else ever… It could just be useful.”

“Take as much time as you need.” Martin reassured her.

Naomi took a sip of her tea and then took a deep breathe. “Alright. You probably know that I was engaged?”

“Erm, yes.” Martin said. He didn’t think she had come to him for counselling or about grief and if she had, Martin genuinely wasn’t sure what he could offer aside from sympathy, and even that would be in somewhat short supply. He just didn’t have the emotional energy. On the other hand, she did say she wasn’t coming to him for help, so he may as well wait and listen to what she had to say.

“Right, well, what most people don’t know is that Evan…” She paused, readying herself for a confession. “Evan wasn’t human.”

“What?” Martin’s jaw hung open in shock. Oh god, had some fairy tried to integrate itself into her life in some sick attempt to steal her away.

“Not many people know.” Naomi said. “I think, it might have just been me, actually. It wasn’t something Evan really told people. I mean why would he.” She gave a bitter smile.

“Are you ok—”

“Yes, I’m fine.” Naomi said briskly. “Evan… he wasn’t manipulating me, he didn’t have some underhanded reason for wanting to marry me. He… he loved me. And I loved him.” Her voice grew stronger and her eyes lit up. “I know you’re going to judge me, think he put me under some kind of spell but that wasn’t it. He trusted me and I trusted him. He gave me his name. Can you even imagine just how much a fairy has to love someone to do that? He gave it to _me_.”

Martin had to acknowledge that giving a human their name was incredibly out of character behaviour for a fairy and he couldn’t think of any kind of manipulation it would serve, considering someone having their name gave them complete control over the fairy. “Why was he here?”

Naomi sipped her tea and then spoke. “He never went into too much detail but he did not enjoy his Court. So, one Hallowe’en he just… left. Walked right out of the Empty Moor into Magnuston and started playing at being human. I think he found it a fun distraction at first but then years went by and he just… stayed. And then we met and we started dating and it was… it was good. It was very good.” Naomi stared down at her tea, small tears beading in the corners of her eyes.

Martin tactfully ignored them while Naomi gathered herself together. “And then he died. I don’t know why, maybe he became too separated from the Forsaken Court, it was unavoidable sudden, a tragedy, all of those things.” She spoke very quickly, brushing the words away because she did not want to swell on the meaning behind them.

“I’m sorry.” Martin said. He couldn’t imagine how hard it must be to lose someone you loved that much so soon. He was still rather dubious about whatever ploy Evan could’ve been doing, but dying for it? There could hardly be any ulterior motivation to that. What ploys can truly matter once you’re dead?

“Of course you are. Everyone’s so very _sorry_.” Naomi snapped. “It’s not like that makes any difference. You didn’t know him.”

“Sorry.” Martin said.

“No, it’s fine.” Naomi’s sudden anger drained from her. “I just… I miss him and I wish people would just stop being so—” She flexed her hands in attempt to convey just what people were like but then gave up. “Anyway, that’s all background, I guess.”

“Take your time.” Martin encouraged her.

Naomi breathed deeply. “Right, so I was quite… depressed I suppose after Evan’s—after Evan. And one day, I just… I was just so angry and sad and I wanted to see him or, I don’t know, get some kind of closure, but I was driving past the Empty Moor. The car broke down and it was late and I just walked into the Moor. I knew then how stupid this was but I didn’t care. It was the place Evan came from and I wanted… You know, I don’t know what I wanted. It was such a stupid thing to do, I knew that as soon as my foot touched the moor’s ground. “

Martin gasped quietly. Naomie glanced at him upon hearing his shock and nodded in recognition. “It-it wasn’t inherently different from normal ground; it was still solid dirt but there was just something fundamentally wrong about it. And as soon as I did so, I realised just how foolish I was being, I tried to turn around but there was nothing behind me, no road, no car, just miles of misty moor stretching on. I was terrified, I’ll admit. And I was so angry at myself and then I got upset about E-Evan all over again.”

Naomi stopped as her voice became thick and she took a second to compose herself. “I don’t know how long I stood there crying. Time was… hard. Eventually, I just became too angry to stand there anymore and started walking, looking for some exit. I walked for so long and nothing changed, there were no trees, no buildings, no roads, it was just me and the moor and the fog. And the fog, it was _hungry_.

Like I said, time was difficult. It was always dusk, I couldn’t see any sun or stars or anything. It was like everything was frozen, dead. I felt like I was disturbing some horrific peace by walking through this place. I tried screaming at one point, just to hear anything other than my footsteps and the fog tried to crawl into my mouth. It was so cold.” Naomie paused, wiping at the tears on her face.

“It was so cold.” She repeated. “I wanted out so badly, to be warm. To not be so alone. It was so empty there. I felt like I was the only person left on Earth, of course, I wasn’t on Earth. It was nothing like I’d ever pictured the Otherworld but then, Evan did always say his Court was a bit different from the others. Not properly in the Otherworld, but not in our world either, somewhere in between. Not properly a part of either. Forsaken.” Naomi smiled bitterly. “That’s why I went there, I suppose. I was forsaken.”

“How did you get out?” Martin asked gently.

“I think… I think I heard Evan.” Naomi said quietly. “And yes, I know, _I know_ he’s dead but I swear I heard his voice through the fog. I was running at this point and he told me to turn left and I did and I was on the road again. I was free.”

“Just like that?” Martin asked.

“Just like that.” Naomi confirmed. “I later found out I’d been in there for a week. I don’t know how long I’d thought I’d been in there, but not that long. Time just didn’t run right there. Anyway, I just thought you ought to know what it’s like in the Empty Moor. I don’t think- I don’t think I would be here now if it wasn’t for Evan. You should know in case anyone ever gets trapped in there or something. I think Evan found me, and that’s what let me go.”

“But Evan’s—”

“ _Yes_ , he’s dead,” Naomi cut Martin off. “But he found me.”

The pair sat in silence for a while after that. They drank their tea and Martin ignored Naomi wiping her eyes with her sleeves, simply offering her the plate of biscuits.

“It’s funny.” Naomi said eventually. “I didn’t really feel all that lost time until so much later. I sat down on the side of the road and I was just suddenly so exhausted, like that whole lost week caught up to me as soon as my hand touched the ground.”

“Oh well, that’s because it did.” Martin said idly, staring distractedly down at his tea.

“What?” Naomi asked in surprise.

“Yeah, it’s just— Time works differently in the Otherworld like you said.” Martin took a big drink of his tea before continuing. “Often it’s slower there than it is here. So, someone could spend what they think is just a year in the Otherworld but in reality, it’s been three, four, _five_ years in our world. And that time catches back up to them once they return to our world. It’s like, once you lose the Otherworld’s hold on you, you also lose the Otherworld’s time. So when you sat down and suddenly got exhausted, it’s because you got back that stolen week all at once… Which must have been exhausting, honestly.”

“I didn’t know about that.” Naomi said, slightly in shock.

“Yeah, I guess it’s not that common knowledge.” Martin shrugged. Annabelle had taught him that. He had assumed it was correct but was suddenly filled with the fear that it might be entirely made up. But no, Annabelle had never taught him a lie. She just didn’t teach him the whole truth. Lies of omission.

Naomi nodded distantly and finished her tea. “Right, well, that was all I wanted to tell you really… Just, a public service announcement I suppose.”

“Thank you for telling me.” Martin said. He wasn’t really sure what to do with Naomi’s story. He wasn’t sure if there was anything he could do, but she seemed freer having given it. Like a burden had been lifted from her.

“I’ll be heading along now.” She said, standing up. “Thank you for listening to me.”

“Um, no problem.” Martin said and lead her to his front door. She gave him a quick hollow smile, that he returned, certain it looked just as forced before she turned and left.

…

Martin was slightly late for meeting Jon, a fact he tried not to feel bad about. Naomi’s unexpected visit had taken quite a bit of energy from him and so it had taken Martin longer to compose himself to go out. He’d thought it would be harder than it was. Which was stupid. He’d been in Magnuston just a week ago and had talked to Jon several times since but-

But this was the first time seeing him in person again and what if there was _something_. Martin couldn’t quite get more specific than that nebulous ‘something’, but he knew his heart wouldn’t be able to handle much more. He needed this to be a good date. The question of whether it was a date hung between Martin and Jon but Martin wasn’t going to touch it.

Martin spotted Jon sitting on the wall outside the church, chin resting in hands, elbows on his thighs. He was ever so gently leaning forwards and his dark hair swirled down his back in a ponytail. He seemed so serene in that moment, almost ethereal that it took Martin’s breathe away. He a strange sense of déjà vu from when he’d first seen Jon.

“Oh, Martin,” Jon turned to look at him, just the hint of a smile brushing his lips.

“Hi, Jon.” Martin said walking over to him. Jon hopped the wall in a well-rehearsed motion that spoke of years of practice. The two just stood there awkwardly for a moment, uncertain how to proceed with, well, anything.

“I was wondering if you’d like to look at some of the shops.” Jon said, somehow managing to sound both entirely uncertain whether this was a normal thing people did and as though there was no universe where they would not go looking at some of the shops. “There are some really quite nice artisans. Some do knitwork so that could be interesting for you?”

“Yeah,” Martin smiled gently. “That sounds nice.”

So that’s what they did. They wandered in and out of shops, subsumed by the tourists who were delighted by hand carved spoons or wool woven coasters. Jon kept a running commentary of the various shop owners and how their products were made. Martin particularly delighted when Jon would conspiratorially inform him that Mr. So-and-so actually imported their delicate jewellery from China and simply heavily implied it was locally produced. Jon got such a giddy expression on his face when Martin joked with him. It made Martin want to kiss him silly.

About halfway through their wandering they ended up discussing Jon’s college days and Martin managed to coax a story out of him about a late-night bender that ended up with Jon and Georgie, his ex if Martin remembered correctly, going to the greasiest chipper’s and getting seven bags of chips between them. “There were three bags on the table in the morning,” Jon said, “and it took me about an hour to remember how they got there.”

“What did you do with them?”

“Well, um, we were college students—” Jon said sheepishly.

“So you had no respect for you body’s needs?” Martin grinned at him.

“Yes, that. So, we had a bag each for breakfast.”

“Oh my god, _Jon,_ that’s terrible.” Martin said, mockingly aghast.

“Listen, it was uni,” Jon protested, “no one was healthy. That was practically tame.”

“Yeah,” Martin said, deflating slightly, “Well, I never went to university.”

Jon looked at Martin, trying and failing to hide his surprise. There had just been an automatic assumption that of course Martin had gone to university, everyone did. But Jon quickly schooled his face into indifference. “It’s not like it’s all that necessary, really. All you’re missing out on are the rich white boys who think they’re God’s gift to rhetoric.”

“And the chips?” Martin smiled.

“We can go to Magnuston’s chipper.” Jon said. “Give you the full college experience.”

Martin laughed and followed Jon to a slightly dingy chipper. The air smelt of salt and grease and the white tiles were smeared slightly on the ground. A gruff man behind the green counter took their order in a black apron. It was so typical it set Martin off laughing again. Jon looked at him questioningly and Martin explained, making Jon smile and laugh just a little bit. They got their bags of chips and set off to continue their shop browsing.

Fewer places let them in, wary of the vinegar and grease which Martin could hardly begrudge them. Surprisingly, the bookshop was happy to let them in. Diana, the owner, seemed happy to have a one-sided conversation with Jon until Jon got distracted by the Encyclopaedias. She turned to give Martin a smile, and he introduced himself. Just as Martin Blackwood. That was all he was. She gave him a rather obvious wink, glancing between him and Jon. Martin would’ve loved to say he didn’t blush.

They finished up in Mr. Ramoa’s antiques store. Mr. Ramoa was happy to trill to Martin and boast to Jon about just how helpful Martin had been about his fairy problem. Jon had looked at Martin with such a look of wonderment and Martin knew he would do anything to have Jon look at him that way again. Somehow Martin ended up leaving the shop with an antique iron corkscrew. Mr. Ramoa was a surprisingly subtle salesman but it probably didn’t hurt that Jon made a comment about needing a corkscrew for opening bottles of wine when they had dinner together.

In the end, they arrived back at the church wall again. They both sat on it, finishing their lunch, watching people pass them by and talking about nothing.

And Martin felt his heart lighten again. A tiny part of the ache sloughing off.

Of course, it had to end. Martin still had things he needed to do and Jon had to help some friends who were arriving today. He didn’t give many details and Martin just let him be. They said their goodbyes and Martin had to stop himself from reaching out to take Jon’s hand.

Martin walked out of town to the cheerful sounds of birds fighting above him. It brought a small smile to his face seeing how territorial they were over trees. It really was a nicer day than he’d thought, Martin thought and took the moment to focus on just the clear sky and the nice lunch. Just focusing on little, positives that was what he needed.

A robin suddenly flew out right past Martin, shrieking all the while. Martin stared at it for the brief second it was in view before it was swallowed by the woods. It was strange, the bird had almost seemed scared. Martin glanced back to where it had come from.

There was a break in the bushes lining the road and a dirt track leading into the forest. Martin felt a sense of foreboding just looking at it. It could just be a normal path, not regularly used, probably mostly walked by teenagers looking for a good spot to drink too much alcohol. But… but there were no cans littering the outskirts of the path and the woods seemed just a bit too dark, more like something was reaching out rather than a simple blocking of light. So that meant it was probably something. 

Martin really, _really_ didn’t want to go down that path. It was bloody stupid, just asking for trouble. You don’t go wandering down strange paths alone, you don’t just walk through the woods all la-di-da unless you wanted a fast track to being dragged away from reality. On the other hand, Martin had his new iron corkscrew which yes, wasn’t exactly a weapon but was still iron. And Martin did know, marginally more than the average person and he should—

That thought tripped Martin up. Should he? Why should Martin over everyone else know what the fairies were doing. That’s what he’d thought witches did. Was he still a witch? Did he still have that obligation? Or had that ever truly been an obligation of witches, or just another part of Annabelle’s experiment. Ultimately there was no real reason Martin should be involved with the fairies, he didn’t have to get into their business. He was, effectively, a civilian. He could just turn around, ignore the break in the bushes and the omen that had led him to it, he could just go home and finish his gardening. Leave the fairies all behind. It was one way to make sure he didn’t go down the path witches seemed destined to walk, he could just have a normal life.

Except he couldn’t.

Because Martin couldn’t just take refuge in ignorance, he had to help people. Even if it wasn’t his job, it was a part of him. Maybe he didn’t have any external obligation, there may not be any responsibility foisted on him, but Martin chose it. He’d chosen what he thought meant protecting people from the fairies, and even if witchcraft turned out to not be that, that didn’t mean Martin had stopped wanting to help. Martin would investigate and stop fairies and make a right nuisance of himself, not because he was a witch but because he was Martin K. Blackwood.

Martin walked off the road into the forest. The path was narrow and completely enclosed by thick undergrowth. Martin had to awkwardly skirt the overflowing brambles. Tree roots jutted out bare against the dirt and the woods were eerily silent. Martin found himself missing the fighting magpies. At least if there were birds around, he could pretend the feeling of being watched came from them.

Eventually Martin reached a clearing with, of course, a fairy ring. It was smaller, a lot smaller, than the one Martin was most familiar with. The ring itself were smooth, perfectly round stone arranged in a circle of about a two-metre diameter.

It felt… fresh.

Not like the massive ring which had an age to it. This felt new. It felt like a threat and Martin shivered in the summer air. He would have to ask Tim about how he destroyed his circles. A lightbulb lit in Martin’s brain as a connection finally lit up. Tim had been talking about new rings popping up in his domain, asking if Martin or Sasha had been experiencing the same thing. Martin had said no then but now it seemed likely that the phenomenon had spread.

Shit.

…

Jon watched Martin leave, fiddling with the empty chip bag. He… liked Martin. That was a weird thought. Jon didn’t like people easily; people didn’t like _Jon_ easily but Martin really did. Even after Jon had insulted him, Martin had come back to him. Jon honestly wasn’t used to it. People always moved on, they had their own lives and Jon was only a tangential part of that. Even his grandmother hadn’t properly made room for Jon in her life. On the other hand, was Jon really an integral part of Martin’s life? Definitely not. Did he want to be an integral part of Martin’s life?

That was a hard question to answer.

And a question to answer later, Jon thought as a car honked noisily behind him. He turned to see a bright blue Volkswagen trundling down the street. Jon smiled involuntarily as he recognised it. The car passed him by and he got a good look inside at the two women. The shorter one was holding up two fingers in a V-shape as they went past. Jon followed the car as it went on a quest for a parking space. They turned off the main road down the sideroad Jon lived on. Jon hurried after them and rounded the bend to see the car awkwardly parallel parking between an oversized jeep and an unhelpfully placed Ford.

As soon as the car stopped, the door flew open and a small ball of blue anger stumbled out. “Jon! Georgie says you’re standing over somewhere.” Melanie yelled as she straightened all five foot 2 inches of her body, her white cane finding purchase with the ground.

Jon obediently walked over towards her, shoes ringing against the pavement, alerting her to his presence. “Hello, Melanie.”

She turned to the sound of his voice and gave him a fierce grin. “Get over you here you dick, I need to elbow you.”

“Why?” Jon asked in trepidation. Melanie’s elbows were sharp.

“On our last call you were more excited to see the Admiral than Georgie, I said I’d avenge her honour.” Melanie said, working out Jon’s location.

“Okay but I’m happy to see you and Georgie now,” Jon protested, still afraid of being elbowed violently by the blind woman. “No, Melanie—”

“Oh, leave him alone.” Georgie called as she stepped out of the car.

“Georgie.” Jon’s face went soft.

Georgie smiled at him, the smile lines around her face crinkling. “Hi, Jon.”

They smiled at each other for a minute before Melanie hit Jon.

“What was that for!” Jon yelped, rubbing his arm as a reflex.

“I missed your stupid face.” Melanie said cheerfully. “Now, help us with our stuff.”

“Can’t even see my face.” Jon muttered but walked over to where Georgie was opening the boot. Inside were two suitcases and a couple canvas bags. Jon passed two of the canvas bags over to Melanie, looking inside them. “Did you seriously bring all your film equipment?”

“Hey, you never know.” Melanie said, getting a better grip on the bags, cane tucked under one arm. “There is _plenty_ of fucked up shit around here.”

“Yeah, but it’s not like you’re going to do an episode on the fai- gentry here.” Jon said taking the suitcase Georgie passed him.

“We’re not necessarily planning an episode.” Georgie said. “But since we’re going to be here for a couple months, we’ll probably end up needing to. Maybe do something with the Magnus Manor being haunted.”

“Seriously?” Jon asked dismissively, rolling the suitcase over to his flat door. “You want to claim a pretty decently well-known tourist site is haunted?”

“Hey, you never know,” Georgie said cheerfully. “And the name recognition is always helpful.”

“Besides,” Melanie joined in, “didn’t old man Magnus disappear under _mysterious_ circumstances.”

“Exactly.” Georgie clicked her fingers and then pointed at her girlfriend. “We can make something spooky out of that.”

“If you get caught breaking in at night, I’ve never met you in my life.” Jon said.

“Photos from the 90s disagree.” Georgie said cheerfully.

Jon ignored her while he unlocked his door and held it open. Georgie trundled past with her suitcase, barely stopping to consider the stairs before hoisting it up one handed, other arm holding the rest of the canvas bags, and striding up the stairs. Jon stopped himself from feeling envious. He knew he was going to need both arms to lift this bag. Melanie followed through the open door, cane clacking back and forth carelessly. She’d been to Jon’s a couple times before.

“Oh, um, actually Melanie, just on the subject of the gentry…” Jon started.

“Hmm?” Melanie inquired as she gripped the banister carefully. “Jon, could you take my cane for a min?”

“What? Oh yeah, sure.” Jon reached out and took it.

“You were saying about the fuckers?” Melanie asked as she started up the stairs.

“Right, um, _he’s_ is hanging around.” Jon said as he hauled the suitcase up the stairs.

“ _What_!” Melanie’s voice was tight with anger from just mentioning Elias.

“And you didn’t mention this before now?” Georgie asked.

“It slipped my mi—”

“It slipped your mind?” Melanie snarled. “Oh yeah, sure, that’s a pretty minor detail.”

“A lot happened recently.” Jon tried to defend himself. “There were the worms—and then, well, I he came to see me.”

“He came to see you? Like at home?” Georgie asked.

“No, at work.” Jon mumbled, grateful his stairs were too narrow for Georgie to turn around and get a good look at his face.

“Are you okay?” Melanie asked awkwardly but still tinged with that anger that always came from discussing Elias.

“Yeah, I think so.” Jon said. “He just did his whole ‘oh, I’m manipulating you while acting like a disappointed father’ thing. It was fine. I haven’t seen him since.”

“Fucking James Wright.” Melanie swore.

“I think he’s still going by Elias now.” Jon said.

“Whatever his name is, if he comes near me, I will tear his smug head off.” Melanie growled. “Don’t think I won’t”

“I know a good spot to hide to hide the body” Georgie said helpfully. “Don’t want to leave Jon stuck with it.”

“Cheers.” Jon said grumpily but thankful for Georgie deescalating the situation. He reached the landing outside his flat and dumped the suitcase to the ground, his arms trembling from the effort.

“Are you panting?” Melanie asked.

“No,” Jon lied through his heavy breathing. “And here’s your cane, by the way.” Jon nudged the cane into Melanie’s side.

“Thanks,” she said, taking it back.

Jon unlocked his front door and shouldered it open. “Um, I cleaned up the place.”

“I don’t want to imagine what state it was in before you did.” Georgie said. Jon would’ve liked to defend himself but unfortunately, Georgie was deeply familiar with how Jon kept his living space. It was either spotlessly organised or looked like a tornado had passed through recently. There was no in between.

“Still probably a better state than _The Surveyor’s House_.” Melanie groused as the three of them walked into the sitting room. Once Melanie’s cane hit the sofa, she dumped all her bags onto it and then leant against the back.

“It’s really not that bad a hotel.” Georgie said.

“They misgendered you!”

“That happened once, and it was years ago.”

“I can still hate them.” Melanie said. “So, yeah, thanks again, Jon. For letting us stay with you and not forcing us into that tourist trap.”

“It’s overpriced too.” Jon mused.

“ _See,”_ Melanie said triumphantly to Georgie. “even Jon agrees with me. It’s a terrible hotel, and I’m right to hold a grudge.”

“The pair of you.” Georgie threw her eyes up to heaven. “But seriously, thank you so much Jon.”

“It’s nothing.” Jon said. “Besides it’s only a month until you get your parent’s house.”

“The ultimate romantic getaway.” Melanie said.

“Okay, Mel, no need to be too sarcastic.” Georgie teased.

“Nope, I’m serious. Best place to spend our Anniversary.” Melanie reached out for Georgie’s hand. “I mean Magnuston is where we first met, it’ll always be special to me because of that.”

“Oh, Mel,” Georgie cupped Melanie’s face with her free hand and stared down at her in adoration.

Jon coughed conspicuously. “Do you want me to show you your room? For _unpacking only_.” Jon quickly clarified as Georgie raised her eyebrows suggestively. “Honestly, you’re over forty.”

“Don’t say that, Jon.” Georgie said. “It makes me feel old.”

“Hah, I’ve still got another year until I forty.” Melanie grinned. “Still young!”

Georgie playfully pushed Melanie in the shoulder. “Oh yeah? Then Ms. Young over here can carrying the bags into our room.”

Jon gestured to the door leading to their room. “You’re lucky I have a spare room. Can’t say the bed’s all that large though.”

“Oh, we’ll manage.” Georgie said, moving over to the door. “Seriously Jon, thanks again.”

“I’m just glad to see you.” Jon said softly. Georgie looked at him fondly before moving into the room, dragging the suitcase behind her. Melanie also followed suit, picking the bags up again from the sofa and following where Georgie’s voice had been. She kept one hand on the wall and then found the door frame and went inside.

Leaving Jon alone inside his sitting room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Hallowe'en everyone! As I'm writing this I can hear the fireworks going off, lol. Hope you all enjoy this spooptacular day, for it is a grand celebration. Speaking of celebrations, we are halfway through the fic! Wahoo!
> 
> I did not realise just how long this chapter was until I was editing it today and was like damn, that's nearly six thousand words. Fun fact, originally this chapter was just Martin meeting Naomi Herne and Jon getting Georgie and Melanie settled into his place but then the Jonmartin date happened.   
> Also yes! The girls are finally here! I adore Melanie and Georgie as you can probably tell.
> 
> Next Chapter: Martin and Daisy Investigate.


	16. Chapter 16

Martin walked inside his cottage, slipping his shoes off and headed into the kitchen to boil the kettle. He’d just come back from a coven meeting that had been… interesting. Martin could feel the headache building between his eyebrows. He reached for ginger tea, he’d always found it to be a good pain killer. The coven meeting hadn’t gone poorly or anything but it had left Martin rather wrecked.

He’d told Sasha and Tim about the circles he’d found, a couple more cropped up after his discovery of the first one. Tim had taken this as some kind of invitation to go on what Martin could only describe as a paranoid rant. He was convinced that there was some cause behind it, that someone in the human world was helping carve out the barrier. Martin couldn’t say he was convinced but on the other hand, they couldn’t afford to not consider the possibility. After all, he hadn’t noticed Jane Prentiss and that had just led to horrible, _horrible_ disaster.

(Martin tried very hard not to think about the run through the forest, the terror of it and the horror when afterwards, the once-woman was dead. His legs still ached with phantom tiredness and sometimes Martin would have to stop himself from bolting as he almost became convinced there was some incoming danger behind him, that the worms were lunging for him.)

Sasha on the other hand, still wasn’t having any problems in her domain and while she was helpful, Martin couldn’t help but leave the coven meeting feeling a bit unsatisfied. It didn’t help that both Tim and Sasha still seemed so comfortable with the title of witch. Tim said he only used it as a descriptor and he didn’t really care about outside context, all that mattered was that it gave him the skills he needed to fight the fairies. Sasha on the other hand was very nonchalant about using the same title as people who walked in the woods. Martin still had mixed feelings. While he had resolved to continue doing the work, he was doing it because it was what _he_ believed in and wasn’t even sure if he wanted the label of witch to be attached to him in any way. But Tim and Sasha were happy with it, happy with calling their group a coven, calling what they did witchcraft and really, Martin didn’t want to push it. It was good they were comfortable. Martin probably just needed more time.

There was a knock at the door. Martin groaned but went to open it.

Standing outside was a neatly dressed, middle aged woman Martin vaguely recognised as Amy Patel. “Hello?”

“Hello.” She said briskly. “I’m Amy Patel, can I please step inside?”

“Oh, um, sure,” Martin stood back, letting her in. She walked confidentially into his living room, sitting on his sofa. Martin perched on the old chair opposite it, feeling slightly as though he was in a job interview.

“Rosie told me to come to you with any issues about the good neighbours.” Ms. Patel said.

“Right.” Martin said after a second of hesitation because yes, he did want to help people. He definitely did but also, he just wondered how Rosie had framed it.

“It’s about my neighbour, Graham,” Ms. Patel said and for the first time, Martin saw a crack in her no-nonsense façade. “Is… it possible for someone to be… replaced? And no one else realises, just you?”

Martin paused to think about it. “It’s not impossible. Could you please, um, elaborate?”

“Right.” Ms. Patel straightened her perfectly pleated skirt. “Well, my neighbour, Graham Folger, his house is just a bit further down the hill and he has a habit of leaving his lights on. Our windows are aligned so I have a very clear view inside his house. So, I developed something of a habit of watching him. I-I just like people watching. It’s really not that strange.” She got very defensive as she said which Martin could understand, it was a pretty weird habit.

“Anyway, he wasn’t always the most, ah, normal of people. I mean, I understand it, when you’re at home, you’re fully relaxed, you don’t bother performing for people. So, I can understand maybe indulging in some habits that you wouldn’t in public. That sounds worse than I meant. What I mean is I once saw Graham eat paper from one of his notebooks.”

“He what?” Whatever Martin was expecting, it had not been that.

“Yeah, that’s what I mean.” Ms Patel said, the vindication clear. “He could be proper weird. But still, he was a nice guy and I never really brought it up with him. Not the note book eating or the watching.”

“Alright.” Martin said.

“Well, it was just one night, I was doing some idle Graham-watching when I noticed something odd about his house’s silhouette. You see, I’ve lived in my house for _years_ , I’ve seen that house for _years_ , I know what it looks like. I noticed what I thought was a drainpipe, running parallel to the window, up into the gutter. Except it _couldn’t_ have been a drainpipe because there’s never been a drainpipe there.

“I was so surprised, I just stared at it. And, I suppose I’m glad I did because it meant I saw what happened next.” Ms. Patel paused, trying to find the right words to explain what she saw. “It… it wasn’t a drainpipe but an arm. An incredibly long, completely impossible _arm._ It bent in too many places, reaching in through the open window and pulled itself in. I didn’t get a good look at the body, it was going too fast. It happened in less than two seconds and was so fluid, it was hard to look at. And then the light turned off.”

Martin’s eye brows raised in shock. “What did you do then?”

“I didn’t know what _to_ do.” Ms. Patel said. “I just panicked and called the local constabulary; told them I’d seen someone suspicious break into my neighbour’s house and then hung up. They arrived at Graham’s house twenty minutes later and I saw a man open the door to greet them. It was not Graham. I cannot emphasise enough how much this man was not Graham, except everyone now looks at him and calls him Graham. No one except me seems to realise that this isn’t Graham! All the photos have changed. I know I’m not having a psychotic break or anything because I know what I saw and nothing else has happened to me.

“I’ve seen him watching me. He just stands at Graham’s window and looks up into mine. And he _smiles._ He knows I know he’s not Graham and he enjoys it. Enjoys the fact that I’m scared…” Ms. Patel trailed off, as though embarrassed to admit to her fear. “So, I came to you. It’s definitely some kind of supernatural something. I thought you could give some advice?”

Martin leaned back in his chair. Did he believe Ms. Patel? The fact that she was the only one to see through this change and the fact that there was no photographic evidence of the old Graham definitely threw her testimony into question except… Except she was so certain about it, so well put together and when it came to fairies, it could be impossible to tell their limits. They were certainly sadistic enough to expend extra effort just to taunt one woman. Martin couldn’t bring himself to doubt someone coming to him for assistance.

Additionally, he knew there were fairies who would replace humans, changelings, but typically they did so with babies and even then, often the claims of changelings were false. Just a baby developing in a way the parent didn’t like or understand and so there must be some supernatural explanation because this could not possibly be their precious little Ma— Anyway, changelings tended to replace children, not adults but it was hardly an impossible concept. Unfortunately, Martin didn’t know which Courts changelings might belong to, if they were a part of the Uncanny or the Watchers. Or every Court could have changelings, the stories about them were pretty universal. A part of him wished he had let Annabelle talk at him more about the Courts.

“I believe you,” Martin told her. “but it means you could be in danger.” Ms. Patel paled but nodded resolutely, steeling her shoulders. “I don’t quite know what kind of member of the Courts this is, but it could come for you next. So, I’m going to need to put some kind of protections in your house. If that’s okay with you?”

“Yes,” Ms. Patel said grimly, “would you be able to come now?”

Martin glanced out the window to see the late sun slipping further down the horizon. He ached to just have dinner and a quiet evening in, to just let the day be finished but he really didn’t want to leave the woman unprotected overnight. “Let me fetch my bag.” Martin told Ms. Patel with a tight smile.

…

Amy Patel drove them carefully along to her house. It wasn’t quite in the town but neither was it truly on the outskirts like Rowan cottage. Her bungalow was on a slope and even before they stopped, Martin could tell it had an excellent view into the house further down the hill. The houses were also closer to the treeline than most others Martin had seen. They loomed, casting long shadows as the sun fell behind the branches.

Ms. Patel parked the car and they both got out. Gavel crunched under Martin’s feet and it seemed so loud in the stillness. And that was odd, wasn’t it? The quiet. It was unnatural. Martin gripped his anti-fairy bag tighter. Martin turned back to Ms. Patel and gave her a wan smile. “I’ll need to go inside to put up the protections.”

Ms. Patel nodded and lead him into her house. It was tidy, professional even, polished wooden floors and cream walls. There were three doors which was a bit more than Martin had been expecting. He only had three horseshoes in total and was reluctant to use all of them on this job. Really, what house had three doors? What was the point of a _sidedoor_? But then again, Ms. Patel did seem to be in quite a bit of danger and he really did want to make sure she would be okay. If that meant he had to go on Etsy again looking for horseshoes then so be it. Martin fished around in his bag, brushing past the dried plant leaved to find his hammer and nails.

“Ms. Patel, I’m going to need a ladder.” He told her.

Ms. Patel looked from his face to the hammer in one hand to the horseshoes in the other. “I have one in the laundry room. Just give me one minute.” She left briskly and Martin was surprisingly impressed by how well she was handling all of this. The fact that she could be in imminent danger had shaken her but she was carrying on with a stoicism that Martin had not expected. She’d even offered him tea when they entered her house with the voice of a soldier about to be deployed.

She returned carrying a stepladder and placed it in front of the back door. Martin got to work nailing each of the horseshoes over the doors. He also put a few sprigs of rowan in for good measure. “Just make sure to also lock up at night.” Martin advised. “This ought to prevent any of them getting in but mundane stops like locks are incredibly effective. Oh and, um, wear red if you think you’re in danger when you need to go out. And wear something inside out. It makes you invisible to them. Not a full-on defence but useful.” Ms. Patel nodded, Martin could see her mentally recording it away. “Also, maybe close the curtains on the window this, um, not-Graham has been looking at you through.”

“I’ve already done that.” Ms. Patel said.

“Right.” Martin said, stepping down off the ladder. “Good thinking.”

“So, what are you going to do about not-Graham?” Ms. Patel asked, folding her arms.

“Well,” Martin said and then paused. What was he going to about this situation? He wanted to help, he really did, but he didn’t really have any idea what he was walking into.

Martin realised Ms. Patel was still waiting for her answer. “I’m going to confirm not-Graham is, ah, not human and then proceed from there?” Martin tried hard to make it not sound like a question because he knew what the procedure from there would be. He gripped the hammer harder and tried not to think about Jane Prentiss’ dead hollowed body. This was different, if it was a changeling, it had never been human. And even if it had been, it had killed at least one man and was capable of so much more damage.

“Sure.” Ms. Patel said.

Martin gave her some more rowan sprigs and recommended her keep them fresh. He finished up the meeting with some more general advice and left. He left, ready for the day to be over.

He managed to walk about five yards away from Ms. Patel’s house before a voice called him.

Martin sighed when he spotted Daisy crouched in the bushes lining the road. She gestured him over and Martin reluctantly walked over to her. He really wanted this day to be over. “Daisy, why are you in a bush?”

“There’s something wrong.” Daisy said.

“Yes, you’re in a bush.” Martin said.

“Enough with the bush, get down here.” She reached for Martin’s arm and Martin allowed himself to be dragged down to sit in the dirt beside her.

“What are we doing?” Martin asked flatly.

“I don’t want it spotting us.” Daisy said lowly.

“It?” Martin leaned forwards, intrigued now.

“The thing living in that house.” Daisy nodded her house towards possibly-Graham’s house.

“You think it’s not human?” Martin said, needing to be sure of what Daisy thought.

“Obviously.” Daisy ran her hand through her short-cropped hair. “Look, I know Basira told you about… me.”

“Yes,” Martin agreed.

“I can- I’m not- there are still some traits from being a Hunter.” Daisy said, stopping and starting in frustration as the exact words escaped her. “I- I can just _smell_ there’s something wrong. It’s in the air. It’s thick with it.”

“What does it smell of?”

“I don’t know!” Daisy snarled in frustration at her inability to properly explain. “It’s just smells _wrong_. It all smelt rotten before that Prentiss girl died and since then it’s been all—” Daisy cut herself off.

“And what, is it centred around this house?” Martin asked. If it was, that would be rather easy to deal with. He’d just need to let Tim and Sasha know and they could do _something._ Ambush not-Graham? He’d work it out.

“Not specifically this house,” Daisy said, killing all of Martin’s hopes, “but it is thick here.”

“Do you think he’s a—one of the gentry?” Martin asked her, interested in her response.

“It’s definitely possible.” Daisy said darkly. “I’ve been staking out his house the past couple nights and every evening he leaves at exactly seventeen minutes to eight.”

“You’ve been stalking him?” Martin stared at Daisy.

“It’s not stalking, it’s different.” Daisy insisted.

“Literally how?” Martin hissed. “Have you been doing this to anyone you consider suspicious?”

“That’s not important.” Daisy said which Martin took as a definite yes. God, that was probably something that should be addressed. Martin was suddenly very aware of the fact that Daisy had absolutely done illegal stuff before and had probably very little intention on stopping. “Look, are you going to help me?”

“Help you with what?” Martin said.

“Getting rid of it.” Daisy jerked her head towards the house. “I was planning on doing this anyway, but now you’re here, you can help out. Use witchcraft or something.”

“I—”

“Look, it’s half seven, we wait thirteen minutes and then we follow him wherever he’s going.” Daisy explained her plan as though it was the most natural thing anyone would’ve thought of. “I’ve got my knife, you have… something I presume in that bag, we can take him and then find out what’s causing the smell.”

Martin leaned back on his haunches and considered Daisy’s proposal. If Martin hadn’t talked to Ms. Patel he would’ve thought it completely mental. There could be a million reasons a man left the house every evening. Martin knew that Daisy had once been a part of the Hunt and that was bound to have left ill-effects. But Martin had talked to Ms. Patel, who was very sensible and had expressly told Martin what she’d seen, what no one else was able to see and now Daisy was telling him that he smelt wrong. Martin would have to be pretty bloody stupid to miss this connection.

He did feel woefully ill prepared, he hardly had any witchcraft, not that he was even comfortable using it, he could just conveniently whip out and he was in a completely wrong headspace, but Martin didn’t want to wait any longer, he couldn’t hesitate. He looked at Daisy and her glinting eyes in the setting sun. “Alright then.”

And they waited, crouched in the bush, watching the house. All the lights were on in an unsettling decision, Martin could see straight into the kitchen. There was something unsettling about seeing someone in their home, it felt like an invasion. Although, Martin thought, this wasn’t the thing’s home.

After what felt like far longer than thirteen minutes, Not-Graham walked out his front door, locked it, and started walking along the road away from Magnuston. Daisy shifted out of her crouch and stepped out of the bush without making a sound. Martin stared at her in surprise as he attempted to imitate her and failed miserably. He’d never realised just how loud leaves were, they might as well have been fireworks going off in the silence.

Daisy shot Martin a glare at all the noise he was making. He grimaced back at her and made a vague gesture to show that he had no idea how to be stealthy and maybe they should’ve thought this through a bit more. Daisy ignored this and kept prowling forward, keeping her body bent double and pressed into the foliage. Martin resigned himself to just being more conspicuous than Daisy, especially as he had his bag to carry.

Martin prayed no cars would come along the road that might cause Not-Graham to look behind or alert him to their presence. Martin felt terribly exposed. Of course, there was nothing inherently suspicious about walking along a solitary road in the evening but Martin just knew that he would immediately collapse under scrutiny. Not to mention the fact that from how tense Daisy appeared, Martin wouldn’t be surprised if she tried to shank Not-Graham as soon as he tried to confront them. And that terrified Martin because what if someone saw? It was already dubious enough dealing with fairies and dancers from a legal standpoint, he didn’t want to appear to be an accessory to a murder.

While Martin was worrying over this, Not-Graham suddenly vanished. Martin stared at where he had just been. He knew he had stopped playing the closest attention but where could he have gone? Daisy didn’t seem to have the issue. She started moving quickly forwards, somewhere between a run and a jog and Martin hurried after her to where she’d stopped. There was a hole in the hedge bordering the road and a path leading further into the forest. Martin closed his eyes as he felt with a deep certainty that he knew what was at the end of that path.

Daisy didn’t even hesitate.

Martin swallowed faintly as he followed Daisy off the road. He squeezed through the gap in the hedge, sucking in his stomach to try to not rustle the leaves as Daisy effortlessly passed through and immediately slunk into the shadows. Martin padded behind, carefully watching his footing. The path was thick grass that thankfully muffled his steps but still Martin was terrified of being noticed. All it would take was Not-Graham turning around, there was no way to properly hide. Martin, as subtly as he could, pulled his hammer from his bag. Just in case. Just to be ready.

Not-Graham was clear ahead, moving quickly through the golden forest. The tree’s shadows were soft in the fading golden light that managed to drift through the leaves. The rising darkness reached up to snatch at the setting sun, making Not-Graham an indistinct silhouette. It was impossible to make out any clear features of him, no details of face or clothing but his figure was stark.

From far away, Martin started to hear music. It was so soft that he didn’t even notice it start but as it grew louder, it started to hurt. Martin wanted to put his hands over his ears. It just sounded so _wrong,_ so fundamentally wrong. It made him want to vomit or scream or run far, far away from it. He remembered Tim’s description of the fairy music. This music did sound sharper, like its very sound was trying to cut Martin’s ears. Martin had no doubt this was fairy music.

Up ahead, Martin saw the trees thin and Not-Graham step out into the clearing. Daisy and Martin slunk off the path, into the trees to get better cover as they cautiously approached to get a better view. Inside the clearing was a fairy circle, not the one Martin had found last week, _another_ one. Martin resisted the urge to curse under his breath. Martin and Daisy hung back in the tree’s shadows. Not-Graham practically pranced forward towards the ring where that music was still discordantly playing.

There were several fairies in the circle, waiting for Not-Graham. They were strange, disjointed creatures. Each was wholly wrong in fundamental ways Martin would never quite be able to describe. Some were pure skeleton with skin and hair haphazardly pasted on top and others were inordinately stiff, with limbs that were far, far too symmetrical. They did not move in a way that could possibly be thought of as natural. But all thought of the other fairies paled when Not-Graham stepped inside the circle.

Its skin peeled backwards, splitting open like an unripe banana. The _thing_ crawled out from the shed skin as though it was some kind of rubber cocoon and stretched upwards. It wasn’t human. Humans didn’t have that many joints, humans had fat on their bones, humans didn’t have that long a neck. Martin instinctively reached for Daisy. She gripped his hand, just as horrified as him. The fairy stepped out of the skin, shaking it off like overly tight trousers and then skipped to the other fairies.

They whirled around each other in time with that horrible music. It was so high pitched. They were laughing, the whole group of fairies. It was a laughter that delighted in cruelty. As the fairy’s feet brushed the grass in complex footwork, Martin watched in horror as the circle _stretched_.

A new fairy appeared as the circle enlarged. It was one of the more humanoid fairies and would’ve been perfectly fine to look at except for its face. Or rather its lack of one. Where there should’ve been eyes, a nose, a mouth, an _identity_ , there was nothing but smooth porcelain. It was dressed richly, in a well-made red coat. Martin thought it almost looked like a human coat and wondered with dread, whether the fairy was wearing a trophy of a human they’d killed. Upon its perfectly round and smooth head rested a crown of nightshade.

Martin suddenly thought back to Annabelle talking to him over the phone the day after the worms. She’d mentioned the Uncanny Queen back then and Martin was pretty sure he now had a lack of a face to put to that name.

Beside Martin, he could feel Daisy tensing. He turned to look at her to see she was gripping her knife, prepared to spring forward and, seemingly, fight the horde of fairies. Martin grabbed her arm, pulling her back. “What are you doing?” he hissed.

“What does it look like I’m going to be doing?” She whispered sharply. “I’m not just going to sit around while they’re _right there._ ”

“Daisy, you’re going to get yourself killed if you just rush in there.” Martin said, glancing back at the horde of fairies wildly dancing. Martin didn’t know if it was just his imagination but the faceless fairy seemed to be looking at them.

“I can take a couple of them down with me.” Daisy snarled.

“Daisy, would you just _think,_ ” Martin said lowly. “You’re acting out of fear. Just think about your safety, if not for your sake, then for Basira’s.”

“Basira,” Daisy said distantly, eyes still focused on the fairies. 

“Yes, Basira.” Martin said. “What would she want you to do?”

“I—I need to protect her.” Daisy started moving towards the fairies.

“You can’t do that if you’re dead.” Martin snapped. He looked back at the fairies and realised with a surge of terror that the Queen definitely was looking at them. There was a tinkling laugh ringing through the forest and hurting Martin’s teeth that he was certain was coming from it. Even though it did not have a mouth to make the sound.   
“ _Daisy!”_

Daisy turned her head back to Martin, she didn’t seem to fully recognise him or where they were and Martin could’ve cursed. She was all frozen up, torn between running in to attack and listening to him. Over her shoulder, Martin could see the faceless fairy pointing at them, head inclined to the side as though wryly amused.

Martin didn’t wait, could not wait, he simply grabbed Daisy’s arm and started to run, pulling her along behind him. He found the tiny trail they’d followed to get there and sprinted. It was clumsy, the path was uneven and Daisy behind him moved at an entirely different tempo. They kept stopping and starting as she almost ran into him or he almost lost his grasp on her arm. But the chittering sounds of the fairies’ laughter was a good motivator to keep moving.

Martin was horribly reminded of running away from Jane Prentiss, the déjà vu almost paralysing him. He could hear the worms behind him and the cloying fear he’d felt trapped in the tree was rising up inside him. He was going to die, no he wasn’t, it was just the same, the exact same. Martin’s breath was catching and not just because of the exertion. Where was Tim? No, Tim wasn’t here, he was safe in Conventry. But was he safe? Was anywhere safe? The panic was almost blinding him and Martin thought he might get lost in what was memory and what was reality, they were both happening, fairies and woods and running and he was going to die. The worms would kill him and—

Daisy shifted in his grip. She got her arm free and with took his hand with her own and started charging on ahead of him. Martin blinked. Daisy’s hand squeezed his, bringing him back into the here and now.  
Martin wasn’t back then. It was entirely different and he couldn’t allow himself to give into that fear. He’d escaped Jane Prentiss, he would escape the Court of the Uncanny.

Martin and Daisy ran on along the path, eventually emerging onto the road, panting hard. Martin wasn’t sure why they’d both simply known that reaching the road would bring them to safety but the instant they reached it, he’d felt safe. It was distinctly human. Martin went to sit down, legs trembling too much to support his weight. He didn’t care that it was the middle of a road. If a car came, he could just hope it noticed him before running him over. Daisy leant over, hands on her knees, shuddering.

Martin let out a small, shaky laugh. Their trip had certainly been informative if nothing else, Martin thought and wanted to cry. He glanced over to Daisy and saw that what he’d thought was shuddering from exertion was actually silent sobs.

“Daisy,” Martin stood up clumsily and reached for her. She pushed him away, eyes wide with fear. “It’s just me. We’re safe.”

She didn’t look up, too busy clutching herself together. Martin gently put a hand on her shoulder, waiting to see if she rejected him again. This time she ever so slightly leant into it and Martin took it as a sign to continue. He gently led her off to the side of the road, walking them both back to Magnuston.

Eventually, her panic attack subsided and they simply walked in silence in the dusk. Martin remembered vaguely that Basira lived above Brew-witched and walked them both in that direction once they entered town. He glanced down at Daisy. She looked ashamed. Martin didn’t know what to say. He could easily see how running away from chasing fairies could destroy her like this and Martin felt a deep spurt of pity for the woman. Not that he’d ever show it, he could tell that was a fast way to get a broken nose. Still, he couldn’t help but be grateful to her. She’d pulled him out of his own memory. In a way, they’d saved each other back there.

He told her as much in an awkward, stilting speech that he wasn’t even certain she even listened to. But when they reached Brew-witched and were waiting for Basira to answer her doorbell, Daisy said quietly “I couldn’t let anyone fall behind me. Couldn’t let you get caught.”

“I’m right here.” Martin said.

“I know.” Daisy said as Basira opened the door. Basira’s eyes widened slightly in surprise which Martin had learnt meant she was shocked. She reached for Daisy who readily accepted her partner’s care. As they went inside, Daisy glanced back towards Martin. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” Martin said quietly.

Daisy gave him a very strained smile and let herself be led away. Basira shot Martin a look that was a mixture between suspicion and gratitude before closing the door.

Martin turned away and went home, glad the day was finally over. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was terrible to write. It took me two weeks. Admittedly, I was just generally burnt out because of many factors (cheers college) but sheesh, this chapter is not my finest work, if I'm being honest.  
> Ah well, exposition is done and we got some Daisy and Martin bonding!
> 
> Next chapter: Martin is given help from a source he cannot trust, and Georgie bullies Jon into acknowledging the fact he has feelings.


	17. Chapter 17

Martin stared at his wool, one hand twitching faintly at his side. The events of last night had left him shaken. Everything from the danger he and Daisy had been in, to the horror at learning that someone had just been _replaced._ Martin did not like to think about the odds of Graham surviving his replacement. If Ms. Patel hadn’t come to Martin, he would’ve been totally unaware of the change. So, Martin needed to be more proactive.

Martin glared at the wool, as though it was the source of Martin’s moral dilemma. The thing was, Martin needed to know more, needed to know if there were other changelings, if anyone else was in danger or had already been replaced entirely. He had to know in order to proceed and try to stop the Uncanny Court from gaining any further ground, killing people. He _had_ to intervene. But… but he really didn’t want to use magic. It felt horribly tainted, it came from the very things Martin wanted to stop. He really didn’t want to just go back to using magic. It felt like letting Annabelle win. Which was stupid on so many levels, not least because he and Annabelle weren’t in competition and spiting Annabelle was not, should not, be his main motive. But, well, Martin knew he could be petty and Annabelle felt so much more personal a thing to define his position on magic in opposition to. Annabelle, a witch who used magic from the fairies, compared to Martin, a person who did not use magic. It was easier to understand than not wanting to begin a slippery slope towards the fairies.

Except Martin needed to use magic to know how to protect his domain.

This was his dilemma. Martin couldn’t help but fear that maybe other witches used a similar justification, using magic to help people, again and again until they were in too deep and too close to the fairies. Martin was scared to go down that path. At what point does it stop being justified?

But could he just ignore the option completely, all while people were dying and the Court was making some kind of play? There were rings opening up faster, all over the place. Martin needed to tell Tim and Sasha but he wanted to have a larger picture when he did. And to do that, he needed to do a Weaving.

Martin sighed and walked away from his sitting room. He just didn’t feel ready to make that decision. Martin walked into the kitchen to put the kettle on for some tea. He was thinking about maybe ginger tea when something caught his eye through the window. Martin squinted through the glass panes to get a better look. At the end of Martin’s garden was a rather haphazard hedge and beyond that, a view into a downward slope, dotted with trees which then thickened into a proper treeline where the ground plateaued. Rowan Cottage was on the shoulder of one of the many hills surrounding Magnuston, meaning that from the front of the cottage Martin had a good view of the village but from the back, he had a good view of the forest. And anything weird in the forest.

For example, Martin was fairly certain forests in late-August were mostly green, autumn leaves didn’t really start until October (thanks Climate Change), so there was no reason for there to be anything yellow in the forest. Not a bright, buttercup yellow blob half hidden by the tree trunks. It had never been there before, Martin was confident. It wasn’t mundane.

This was fairy activity. Martin could try to kid himself and think it was just some foolish camper’s tent, but he knew in his gut what it was. Well, he supposed he ought to go deal with it.

Martin grabbed a kitchen knife and put a couple nails in his pocket. He shrugged into an inside-out red jumper and laced up his hiking boots. They were surprisingly good for running in and even aside from that, they were good for kicking people. He also shot Tim a text, along the lines that if Martin didn’t text him back in a couple hours then he was in deep shit. Feeling as prepared as Martin was able to be, he set off.

Martin decided to eschew the main roads and just try to walk towards the yellow thing as the crow flies. He had a sense that he would lose track of it too easily if it left his sight so he walked out to his back garden and squeezed out past the hedge. The slope on the other side was steeper than it looked, and Martin had to be very careful not to lose his balance and fall. An unpleasant notion in any context but one that was even more unappealing when a knife was also thrown into the mix. So, Martin took his time, slowly eking his way downhill until the slope flattened out. Every few seconds Martin would glance back at the forest, keeping the splotch of yellow in view.

As he grew closer to the treeline, Martin got a better look at it. It seemed to be a bright yellow rectangle, just sitting in the middle of the woods. Strange and definitely unnatural. Martin shifted his grip on the knife.

The grass on the hill was thick and long, coming almost up to Martin’s knees, the lack of a path meant that he had to wade through the stuff and Martin kept glancing down to check his footing. Whenever he looked back up, the yellow block seemed to be in a slightly different position. Or were the trees the things that moved? No, it couldn’t be. That didn’t make any _sense_. Still it felt like an age before he finally reached the trees. Martin turned to look back at the distance he’d walked and his heart sank, he couldn’t see his house behind him.  
And yes, that made some kind of sense, climbing that hill had felt like miles except it couldn’t have been miles. The forest was so close to his back garden. Half a mile away at most and yet now as he looked back, he could just barely make out his cottage far, far in the distance. The land just stretched on and on between him and his starting point.

Martin put one hand inside his pocket and ran a finger along one of the iron nails, grounding himself. This must be some kind of illusion. It wasn’t real. He turned around again to see the yellow thing still sitting cheerfully further into the forest. He was close enough now to see it was a door. A bright yellow door. So, definitely fairy activity, if there was any doubt left. Should Martin keep going forward? Was he just walking into a trap? It was probably a trap but Martin couldn’t just leave it alone, it could go so badly wrong. Someone else might come across this fairy and get trapped, at least Martin knew how to handle this kind of thing. Mostly.

Martin walked into the forest. The trees bent overhead, spiralling branches shifted in more than just the wind. Trees seemed to rise up suddenly in front of Martin, and he had to constantly stop and start to dodge around them, always trying to keep his eyes on the yellow door. Except, between blinks, it would move, shifting just a bit to the right, a bit to the left, by small enough degrees that Martin wasn’t even sure it was happening at first. When he tried to turn around, he couldn’t see out, the forest was mirrored behind him, the whole thing a twisted maze of trees and doors.

“Enough!” Martin snapped, slashing his knife at the latest tree that had inexplicably popped into existence in front of him.

“No need to be rude,” a voice says as the world blurred and reformed into what Martin had to assume was reality. Martin glared at the returning forest, the yellow door sat smugly in the middle of the path as though Martin should’ve easily been able to find it.

“I mean, _really_ , going for the knife,” the voice continued behind Martin.

He turned around to see a dark skinned woman in a bright magenta pantsuit, her hair curling in ways Martin was pretty sure was impossible regardless of race. “Hello there!” She said cheerfully meeting Martin’s eyes. Martin was taken aback by just how wrong her eyes were. Huge, glassy, brown eyes, no whites to be seen yet they bore into Martin. They were like horses’ eyes.

“What do you want?” Martin asked it, on high guard.

“You could at least say hello before starting your questions,” a different, slightly petulant voice said behind Martin. He turned around to see a tall man leaning against the yellow door, idly playing with a yellow scarf. The colour coordination was a bit much, in Martin’s opinion.

“Much ruder than Sasha,” the woman agreed.

Martin grimaced, he knew some fairies were sticklers for decorum but he hardly wanted to be civil. “I think that when you trapped me in some illusion maze, you bypassed my manners.”

“Ooooh, fiery, how fun!” The woman said.

“Almost fun as the maze.” The man giggled.

“What’s with the door?” Martin gestured at it.

The curly haired woman smiled. “We just wanted to get your attention…”

“… no need to get all twisted up over it.” The man in yellow finished. “Although, if you really want to know about it, why don’t you come inside?”

“No thanks.” Martin said, suspicious. Obviously the door was some kind of trap, he wasn’t stupid enough to just walk in. They both looked a little disappointed by that.

“If you’re _really_ curious,” the woman said, “the door is our project. A modernisation, if you like. Stone circles and mushrooms are so last century.”

And then it clicked in Martin’s brain. He remembered Tim and Sasha talking about them, “the Lying Twins”, the pair of pookas Sasha went to for information. A part of Martin’s brain short-circuited as it wondered if that counted as Sasha doing deals with fairies, was Sasha just like other witches, no she couldn’t be. Martin trusted Sasha. He kicked himself for not picking up on it as soon as they mentioned Sasha.

“You’re the Lying Twins, right?” Martin said, glancing between the two. “Michael and Helen?”

‘Michael’ bowed sardonically, while ‘Helen’ clapped her hands together in delight. “Those are names, yes. Well _done_ , witch.”

“Not a witch.” Martin mumbled.

“Oh? Really?” Michael asked, leaning towards Martin. “What makes you so different from the last witch?”

“The last witch?” Martin was completely confused as to the direction the conversation had taken. He’d expected to be compared to Annabelle if anyone. “Do you mean Gertrude Robin—” Michael snarled and Helen smile became decidedly more sharp and Martin decided to stop talking.

“If you don’t want to be called witch,” Helen said lightly, “you could always tell us a name you’d prefer.”

“No thanks.” Martin said, honestly slightly stunned how blatant these attempts of manipulation were.

“Oh, you’re no fun.” Helen sighed. “But yes, Sasha did call us Helen…”

“… and Michael.” Michael said. “Rather inaccurate labels but then again, I suppose necessary. It’s hardly possible for us to give a sense of identity. It’s like asking the clouds to sing. A question simply wrongly formed.”

“…sure.” Martin said. “So, you said you wanted my attention, you have it. What now?”

“You’re being awfully impatient,” Michael said.

“Maybe we just wanted a chat?” Helen chimed in.

“I doubt that.” Martin said, gripping the knife tightly.

“Well, the thing is, my dear,” Helen said. “we’re interested in what happens now.”

“Do you even know who’s lying to you?” Michael asked.

“How would either of you know who’s lying to me?” Martin scowled. “I’m not just going to listen to you try to confuse me.”

“I am simply trying to be helpful,” Michael said.

“If you choose not to appreciate it, I’m sure we can make other arrangements.” Helen was suddenly far too close to Martin, her hand on his upper arm and her face leering into his. Her hand felt dense and sharp in a deeply uncomfortable manner. Martin got the sense that if she tried, Helen could tear through his skin and muscle down to the bone as easily a hot knife through ice cream. It was a stark reminder of the danger Martin was in.

“Thank you for your help,” Martin acquiesced, “why did you decide to… warn me?”

“Michael thought…” Martin could actually feel Helen’s grin digging into his cheek.

“…that it might be good for you to know about our friend.” Michael said and then after a beat, “and good for her too.”

“Who are you talking about?” Martin asked.

“Names, names, names,” Helen trilled in exasperation. “It always comes back to names with humans. So dependent on them, I mean _really._ It’s not as though we haven’t already told you.”

Martin racked his brain, trying to remember exactly what they’d said, growing increasingly annoyed as the exact minutia slipped from his grasp. “Is this something to do with the Courts?”

“Oh, _office politics,”_ Helen said dismissively. She’d read the term in one of the magazines Sasha had given her and was quite proud of how she could use it to connect with the humans. “They’re just so invasive!”

“So, are you, um, a part of the Court of the Uncanny or the Watchers?” Martin asked, hoping that the question wasn’t too offensive but it really wasn’t immediately clear. Maybe they were giving off clear signs of which Court they belonged but Martin felt bloody blind.

Michael laughed, a long, stinging giggle while Helen looked somewhere between amused and insulted. “Really now, witch, no need for rudeness.” She said.

“Where does a disguise become a lie?” Michael asked philosophically between giggles, “Where does paranoia become madness?”

“Is this a riddle?” Martin asked after a pause.

“No more than you want it to be.” Michael said, returning to the eerie, calm he had been maintaining only interrupted by anger at Gertrude Robinson’s name. It was unsettling as it made it clear just how much Helen’s emotional reactions were closer to performances than genuine. Not that Martin was anyway inclined towards forgetting either of their inhumanity but Helen did almost come across as normal. It was almost worse than appearing totally alien.

“I can say we are no friend to the Court of Unknown Strangers,” Helen said, “awfully nasty that lot I think.”

“Dreadful.” Michael agreed.

“Hmm,” Helen said turning back to Martin, “and as for Watchers, well, I think that would suit us rather poorly. Truth and lies are hardly compatible.”

“So, you’re not from either Court?” Martin said, trying to keep it all straight. It hurt talking to them, reality seemed to swim and it was harder to think but Martin just pushed through. “I’m presuming you’re not from the Court of Filth.”

Helen shuddered melodramatically. “Oh, _never._ They’re far too visceral.”

“That’s the issue, really,” Michael mused, “so focused on the physical, gritty bits of existence as though those matter at all. Do you still call a corpse friend once the mind departs?”

“It is the only thing worth breaking.” Helen agreed. “Bodies are so… _obvious_.”

“So, what?” Martin asked, clutching the knife, unsure how much use it would be against what seemed to be mental attackers. “You deal with the mind? In madness?”

“That is one way of imaging it.” Michael said. “Can you deal in something you are?”

“You’re being too abstract for the poor boy.” Helen admonished, flashing Martin a full smile. “He just wants a simple answer to a simple question. Quite…”

“…a foolish thought but…”

“… we can give you this much,” Helen bowed, throwing one arm out theatrically before bouncing back up and clasping her hands together. “We are a part of the Court of Delusion—”

“—and Illusion.” Michael completed. “Not your Watchers or Strangers.”

“I thought those were the only two Courts active here.” Martin said, if Annabelle had been lying to him again, he would be furious. “But there’s also you and the Filth?”

“The Filth isn’t based here. It was trying to invade.” Helen said. “This is basic, keep up.”

“What about your Court?”

“The Court of Lying Madness isn’t here. It’s based far, far away.” Michael said in a tight voice, one that had Martin instinctively on edge. That was genuine anger there. “It’s just us stuck here.”

“No thanks to your lot.” Helen said darkly, before immediately switching back into ‘perky mother in law who wants to break out the wine’ mode. “Now then, witch, I hope you appreciate our clarity. It took a great effort.”

“You haven’t really told me anything.” Martin pointed out carefully, wary of their potential anger.

Helen kept smiling down at Martin. “You’re bright, I’m sure you can work something out…”

“…we’re keen to see how this all progresses.” Michael finished, opening the yellow door.

“That’s it?” Martin asked, stunned. “You summon me out here, lead me around in circles, talk cryptic nonsense about lies and madness and then just leave?”

“We are neutral, yes, why would we tip the scales too harshly?” Michael asked as he left through the door, only his jagged laughter echoing from everywhere.

“I do think we’ve been very good to you, witch,” Helen tapped his shoulder in a gesture that was the distant cousin to playful and then walking behind him. “Just look for the strangers in your midst, for the empty spaces that have been filled and I’m sure you’ll find your friend.”

“Are you saying someone I know has been replaced by one of the Court of the Uncanny?” Martin asked, desperate for some kind of straight answer out of Helen. Martin turned around to try and look at her, but behind him there was just empty forest. He turned around again to see the door gone, as though they’d never been there. “…Right.” Martin sighed in utter frustration.

The walk back to his house from the forest was mercifully normal. When Martin left the forest and looked back, his cottage was perfectly visible, right where it should always have been and he simply trudged along towards it, going as directly as the landscape would allow.

That whole interaction had clinched it. He had to do a Weaving, he had to find out what Michael and Helen had been infuriatingly vague about. He did fear that perhaps this was what they wanted him to do, that they were manipulating him into doing witchcraft and starting him down that path. But Martin pushed that thought away. He couldn’t afford to be paralysed by indecision and equivocate for so long he missed any opportunity to actually _do_ anything. This was as good a confirmation that things were going to hell that he would ever get and he would not simply sit back and ignore it out of some fear that two pookas wanted him to mess about with wool.

Hell, it might even have been some attempted reverse psychology or been motivated by something completely different. Martin couldn’t know. He would never be able to fully parse out the Lying Twins’ reasoning or even trust what they said, but he could trust his own work, his own magic.

Martin checked his watch as he walked into his kitchen. Just an hour had passed. Martin snorted. Those fairies had enjoyed toying with him too much, he’d expected as much. Perception of time was an easy thing for fairies to distort, still it was rather unsettling to be reminded of that power. He was glad they hadn’t been as hostile as the other fairies he’d encountered but it still felt like he’d been on the defensive the whole time. He had to admit, he’d really wanted to just fight them. It would’ve been a lot more straightforward than trying to actually get information. Besides, antagonism towards fairies wasn’t something Martin was keen to let slip even for a minute. If he saw Helen and Michael again, he’d probably not be as acquiescent, no matter what Sasha said. Guess he agreed with Tim.

Martin walked into the sitting room, collapsing onto the couch. His feet throbbed, no longer having to support his weight. He felt like he’d walked for miles, which was distinctly possible considering the nonsense the pookas had decided to put him through. Martin allowed himself a moment to just ease into the soft cushion before he reached for the wool he’d left on the sofa earlier.

The wool was soft, it was a partial cashmere weave. It would make a nice scarf, Martin thought idly as he ran his fingers through it. Where had he gotten it? He couldn’t remember. Had he bought in Magnuston, in one of the many tourist inclined craft stores? Or maybe it came from back—The thought started him, because the village he’d come from, Fieldingsheer, that wasn’t home anymore. He’d spent so long thinking of it as home, as the place he really belonged and felt like something of an interloper in Magnuston but now? Now it was Magnuston that came to mind when he thought of home. When had that happened? When had the church spire and narrow main road nestle their way inside his heart? When had he become so familiar with the townspeople? He had more idle conversations when he nipped into Tesco than he’d ever had back in Fieldingsheer.

As Martin twirled the wool between his finger and thumb, wrapping it on his pinkie, he thought about Magnuston, about Rosie’s warm greetings and Basira’s cool solidity and Jon. Yes, Martin did think about Jon, cleaning his flat, grumpily complaining about having to pick up after his roommates. A small smile rose to Martin’s lips at that. The town was bustling as children tried to cling to the last vestiges of summer, running hastily past the school that would be opening soon. The pub and shops, slashing prices to catch the last crowds of visitors, a police officer ticketing a man for his car parked on double yellow lines.

Overhead a crow cawed and took flight, soaring into the sky and over the sprawling forests. The Conventry river snaking through visible from the height. The river that lead to Conventry itself with its twisted architecture and brightly painted houses. Tim was chatting distractedly to a neighbour while trying to surreptitiously drop a nail into her handbag. People flowed around him, ebbing in and out of streets. Martin couldn’t quite get as good a grasp on Conventry as his own domain and allowed it to slip from his grasp moving onto Millbank and the buzz and hum of a weekly market. It was lively, nice, people haggling over the price of vegetables and old books. Sasha swam through the tide, satisfaction emitting from her. It was a nice scene, and Martin was caught up in it, drinking in the energy.

The smiles papering over fear.

Martin’s eyes snapped open and the connection was severed. Martin took several deep breathes. He knew what he’d felt there, that wasn’t a normal community, there was underlying panic growing. There was something deeply wrong in Sasha’s domain.

He looked down at his Weaving. Its shape was rather fascinating. The main body of it, that stood for Magnuston, was a circle inside another circle inside an oval pinched to a point at both long ends. The unnerving symmetry Martin had noticed in his first Weaving recreated. And, again, when Martin ran his fingers along the lines of wool that stretched into the centre, they found Jon. What did it mean? Why was Jon the centre of such an artificial Weaving? It had happened twice now, Martin was not inclined towards putting it down as a coincidence. And the fact that the Weaving was so regular, something was controlling Magnuston. One of the Courts? Annabelle? No, it probably wasn’t Annabelle. That was just Martin’s paranoia speaking. This level of regularity would require far too much effort for someone far away, even a master Weaver like Annabelle. As for the Courts, that was possibility that chilled Martin to the bone.

Still that strangeness had nothing in the periphery of his Weaving, the parts that stretched into Conventry and Millbank. Conventry was the organic mess Martin would expect from a town, there were some knots and strange irregularities but Martin was fairly certain that was because of the fairy issues Tim had been dealing with, all the new fairy rings and, Martin suspected, changeling infiltrations. Millbank, on the other hand, was all twisted up, bending and curling in on itself in fear. There was a clear paranoia there, the whole town was sick with it, and there in the middle of bent lines was Sasha.

Martin sat back and breathed deeply. There were many possible meanings. Perhaps Millbank had just suddenly come under assault from the fairies, or perhaps Sasha hadn’t noticed until now and those threads were just her investigating the disturbance? But Martin knew he was kidding himself. Maybe if the Lying Twins hadn’t given him their warning, he would have believed it but it was too much to just be a coincidence.

Martin really hoped he was wrong but he was suddenly very scared about Sasha.

…

Jon didn’t hum while cooking but he did relax into the process, a small smile gracing his face. Just the onions and garlics were cooking in the pan so Jon wasn’t entirely surprised to hear a door open and Melanie’s cane clack-clacking on the floor.

“That smells good, what is it?” Melanie asked.

“I’m making Lahori chicken.” Jon said, then spotting the uncomprehending expression on her face, elaborated. “Curry.”

“Ah,” Melanie said. “Spicy?”

“Just a bit,” Jon glanced at his chilli powder that he was planning on tossing a lot of in. “Is that okay?”

“Course. I can take any level of spice!” Melanie declared.

“Alright.” Jon muttered scrapping chicken pieces into the pan and adding the yoghurt. “If it’s too much for you, don’t complain to me.”

“As if.” Melanie snorted. “I bet I can eat way spicier food than you.”

“I doubt that.” Jon said pouring water into the pan and stirring.

“Here, do you want a hand with cooking. I’m pretty good.” Melanie offered.

Jon snorted. “Two days ago—”

“—Okay we don’t need to talk about—” Melanie tried to talk over him.

“You put cumin in your stir fry instead of ginger.” Jon continued on.

“It’s not my fault all your spice jars have the same shape.” Melanie snapped.

“That’s why you smell the spice before you throw half the jar in.” Georgie pointed out, walking into the kitchen.

“Whatever, last time I’m offering either of you help.” Melanie said, grouchily.

“I’m sure it is, darling,” Georgie said, giving her girlfriend a quick peck on the cheek. “I just wanted to let you know, Andy Caine just got on a video call.”

“What? Now?” Melanie asked, stunned.

“Yep.” Georgie said, exasperated.

“Nice of him to give us a heads up.” Melanie grumbled. “Not exactly making me inclined to doing that collab but whatever, I’ll go talk to him.” She hurried back out of the kitchen to go answer this apparently urgent call.

Georgie idly moved over to where Jon was, still beside the hob, adding various spices, tomatoes and a vindictive amount of chilli. “Lahori chicken?” Georgie asked him.

“Yes.” Jon said, pleasantly surprised Georgie remembered the dish.

“It’s always been one of your favourites to cook.” Georgie told him, smiling faintly. “And yes, I am psychic.”

“Oh, piss off.” Jon moaned fondly. He was not that transparent. Georgie had just known him for a long time. “It’s a good dinner.”

“I’m not disagreeing with you there.” Georgie said. “Honestly, your cooking was probably the only reason I didn’t get scurvy in uni.”

“I wonder if Martin would like it.” Jon said. “I don’t really know his stance on spicy food.”

There was a rather pregnant pause. Jon turned around to look at Georgie who was very deliberately keeping her face blank. “What?”

“You talk about Martin a lot.” Georgie said, not making eye contact with him.

“I- not really.” Jon didn’t think he talked about Martin much, maybe every now and then, when it was relevant but not enough to require comment. “Anyway, he’s a friend.”

“ _Is_ he, now?” Georgie said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jon asked, suspicious.

“You don’t tend to like people.” Georgie said bluntly. “But you talk about him, all the time. Wondering whether he’d like something or just telling me about him.”

“So?” Jon said defensively.

“So? Jon, I don’t think you even did that for me when we were dating.” Georgie pointed out.

“I- no, I’m not doing it _that_ much.” Jon protested, still not sure where Georgie was going with this.

“Look, Jon, you told me that Martin initially asked you out on a date, right?” Georgie asked, continuing after receiving Jon’s mute nod. “So, he’s interested in you, in a romantic way I mean.”

“I suppose. At least at that point.” Jon said. “I don’t know if he still—”

“Jon,” Georgie interrupted. “I’m not you, and I can’t tell you what you’re feeling but I think you should really ask yourself just what kind of relationship you want with Martin. Because I’m not certain it’s wholly platonic.”

“I—that’s ridiculous, Georgie.” Jon immediately denied the allegation. “I would know if I had a crush on Martin.”

“Would you?” Georgie asked. “I’m not saying you definitely do but Jon, you can sometimes be quite out of sync with your own emotions.”

Jon swallowed hard and looked away from her. That much may be true, Jon wasn’t good at self-reflection, and had only gotten worse at identify his feelings after Elias. Still, Jon knew he cared about Martin. He liked the man. He’d felt terrible after hurting him and let Elias manipulate him easily out of concern for him.

Was that love?

No, Jon was pretty certain he didn’t love Martin. But that didn’t mean Martin was only a friend. Or was he only seeing this possibility because Martin already expressed interest in him. But was Martin even still interested? It wouldn’t be fair to try to push him into a relationship, especially considering how much was going on in Martin’s life. He had just been through quite a lot and needed stability, a chance to recover. He didn’t need Jon suddenly confessing romantic feelings to hi—

“Oh,” Jon said. “I think I do like Martin.”

“Congratulations,” Georgie said dryly, “how’s the curry?”

“Oh shit,” Jon turned back to the dish, stirring it a couple times to make sure nothing stuck. “Well, it’s supposed to simmer for a while, so everything’s okay.” He stirred the thing a couple more times and then made vague motions to start cooking the rice to go with it before he turned back to Georgie with a kind of defeated desperation. “What am I supposed to do now?”

“I can’t answer that for you.” Georgie said, then softened, “but you should probably talk to Martin. Tell him how you feel.”

“Oh, I can’t put pressure on him like that.” Jon fretted, missing Georgie rolling her eyes to the heavens.

“I’m _pretty_ sure it wouldn’t be an imposition.” She said sarcastically. “Jon, he likes you. He’d be happy.”

“But what-what about—” Jon stuttered.

“What?” Georgie asked.

“What about the fairies.” Jon burst out. Jon and Georgie’s faces paled as they realised what he’d just done. They both looked to his window and Jon breathed a sigh of relief seeing it was firmly shut. They were probably okay.

The tension slowly left Georgie and she started to process what Jon had actually said. “The gentry? I mean, you said he’s a ‘good’ witch, so he probably knows at least something about how to protect himself. Honestly, it might be good for you. Give you another pair of ey—hmm, give you another layer of defences, could help you.”

“I… I haven’t told him about… everything.” Jon mumbled.

“What? None of it?” Georgie asked, legitimately stunned. “Not Elias? Or the Otherworld? Or the decade—”

“None of it.” Jon said, looking at the floor.

“Jon,” Georgie said gently, “if you want to have some kind of intimate relationship with him, you’ll need to trust him. And he’ll need to trust you. Can you have that if your whole past lies between you two?”

“I know,” Jon said quietly, “I know.”

“I know it’s hard.” She said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “It was hard telling both you and Melanie about the beanshee but it was important I did so.”

“You don’t need to guilt me.” Jon snapped.

“I’m not guilting you, so don’t go on the defensive.” Georgie said firmly. “I’m empathising with you. And also, you must see how, in a relationship, it’s good to know about certain, um, issues your partner might have.”

“You not being able to feel fear is pretty different from having to be constantly paranoid about what I touch.” Jon said.

“I’m not saying you have to force yourself.” Georgie said. “Look, if you’re not ready to tell him, you’re probably not ready to date him.”

Jon’s heart lurched at that. Date him. Date Martin. Yes, that had previously been sort of discussed but now, it suddenly felt so real. And Jon wanted that. He wanted to date Martin. But it was so hard to talk about his experiences in the Otherworld. It had been hard enough telling Georgie and the various counsellors about it just after it happened. Now, a couple years out, talking through it, reliving it again, seemed so impossibly difficult. But he wanted to. For Martin.

“I’ll think about it.” Jon said, turning back to the hob. “I think dinner’s ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe that we had such a wonderful episode about the Distortion the week Helen and Michael show up. I have good timing apparently  
> Fun fact, this was meant to be half of one chapter but yeesh, it was too long, there was too much happening so I split it into two. This is the first time I've deviated from the plan, but I definitely think it was the right decision.  
> In less fun news, I am uncertain about my future upload schedule. I have no more prewritten chapters to fall back on and college do be ramping up. (Also I'm working on something for the TMA Big Bang, so that's really exciting)  
> Anyway, I'm going to try to stick to one chapter every Saturday, but consider this a lil warning.  
> Okay, I guess more cooking discourse, cumin is a bad spice. Discuss
> 
> Next chapter: Martin attends a coven meeting


	18. Chapter 18

It was Sasha who hosted the coven meeting, right in the heart of Millbank. Millbank was a more spacious town than Magnuston, more sprawling with a large cobblestone square for gatherings and an old, wide bridge over the Conventry river. Beside the bridge was the large mill the town had been named for, now converted to a pub. The Old Mill. Not the most creative name. It was built from old slabs of stone laid in a circular form reaching upwards. Fresh wooden beams painted a cheerful green, decorated the outside having replaced the old, rotten wood that had supported the building for years. Attached to the side, a huge mill wheel turned in the water. It was rather mesmerising to watch, Martin thought.  
It was to this pub, Sasha had called the meeting. The inside was spacious with a large fireplace and round tables dotting the space with plush stools. Light streamed in through the tall, narrow windows, illuminating the old stone walls and modern polished floor. Lights hung, unlit from the ceiling and posters hung in frames along the plaster wall opposite the entrance, where the bar stood. Directly behind the bar were shelves of alcohol and a blackboard with the day’s specials scrawled in illegible chalk.

“Over here, Martin!” Sasha waved him over as he came in. She was sitting at a circular table in the corner with Tim, glasses of water already sat on the table along with several discarded menus. Martin swallowed nervously, steeling himself for the interaction. Above all else, he had to remain calm. If Sasha was Sasha then there was no need to disturb her and if Sasha wasn’t Sasha, well… no need to let it-her-them-it know he suspected her-it. He needed to be nice, friendly, normal Martin. He could do this. Martin would never say he was an accomplished liar but he did know how to present himself. It was just acting.

Martin smiled as he sat down opposite Tim. He would’ve liked to be opposite Sasha but with the circular booth they were sat in, and Sasha had taken the spot tucked furthest in while Tim sat perched at the end. Martin supposed he was grateful. He felt trapped enough in this conversation without being literally trapped by the table position.

Tim was generally agitated, tapping his fingers against the table and bouncing one leg. Martin shot him an inquiring look which Tim dismissed. “I’m fine. I’m just—Look do you mind if we go straight into this? I just—I’m worried.”

“Of course, Tim.” Sasha said, all concern.

“Sure.” Martin said after a pause. “I, um, also have some things to tell you.”

“Right.” Tim said, and then launched into a long explanation of everything that had been happening in Conventry. Mostly, it was circles popping faster than time could burn them, it was obvious he’d been running himself ragged trying to stop all the rings. Tim had also had to step in several times to try and save people from the rings. From the way Tim talked about it, Martin didn’t think he managed to save everyone. “They’ll just be pulled in, and once they’re in the circle, there’s nothing I can do!” Tim spat. “…Sometimes there’s some of them left behind the next day.”

“What have you been doing with the remains?” Sasha asked, revulsion rolling off her. Martin eyed her in suspicion.

“…I don’t want to talk about that.” Tim said. “But I try to make sure the families have something to bury. It’s only happened twice but…the skin…”

Martin’s hand trembled as he reached for a glass of water. This was horrifying. Even twice was too many times and Martin desperately hoped that Graham’s body hadn’t been left brutalised. He hadn’t found anything and had been keeping a close look on the forest so hopefully Graham’s body hadn’t been torn to pieces like the two people Tim hadn’t managed to save. Still, it was strange that he wasn’t experiencing these difficulties nearly to the same degree as Tim.

“I’ve only had one person… gone.” Martin said softly. He’d never known Graham, not what he looked like before he was taken, what he was like or even that he existed before Ms. Patel talked to him. It was easier than Timothy Hodge. He didn’t have the guilt of knowing the man before, Graham wasn’t as real to him as Timothy or even Jane Prentiss. Was that wrong? Shouldn’t he care about everyone equally? Afterall they were all victims, but Martin just didn’t have that level of emotional energy within him. To care equally, deeply about every victim of the fairies. Did that make him a bad person?

“He was called Graham Folger.” Martin told Tim and Sasha. “He lived just on the edge of town, near the forest and he’s gone.” Martin didn’t want to directly explain how he’d come by this information, wasn’t quite comfortable giving Amy Patel’s name away in front of maybe-Sasha. He didn’t want to put her in any more danger and he just knew Ms. Patel would be if the fairies knew she suspected something was wrong. They may already know, but Martin wasn’t going to just _give_ them that.

“What do you mean?” Tim asked gently. “What happened to him?”

Martin took a deep breath, “He was replaced. Just, completely replaced, photos, memories, everything. The original is just… gone. And there was some fa—neighbour waltzing around pretending to be him.”

Tim swore quietly while Sasha sucked in a breath in what Martin supposed could be horror. “I saw the thing that did it. It just stripped out of the disguise like it was a coat and dance with other gentry. Apparently, this new Graham didn’t even look anything like the original Graham, but no one could tell.” Martin felt sick recalling it.

“So, they can just do that—replace someone?” Sasha asked lowly, hands cupped around her glass as though seeking comfort from it.

“Jesus.” Tim whispered. “That—that’s terrible.”

“Yeah, I’ve been keeping an eye on it, I did a Weaving and it showed no one else in Magnuston had been replaced.” Martin explained. Did Sasha stiffen when he said that? No, she was still the perfect display of worry and concern for her fellow man. Was Martin simply being paranoid? No, he couldn’t start believing that.

“So, you only had one instance of changelings?” Sasha asked.

“Changelings?” Martin asked her. “I never called it that.”

“Well, that’s what it is, right?” Sasha said. “I’ve never heard of any other members of the good neighbours replacing people. It’s just not common.”

“But don’t changelings only go for babies?” Martin asked.

Sasha shrugged. “Why would I know? Okay, if they’re not changelings, what have you been calling it then?”

“I have been thinking of it as a changeling.” Martin admitted. “Not-Graham is what I’ve been calling it in my head.”

Sasha mouthed the words several times. “Not-Graham. I like that, it’s a good way of distinguishing.”

“Does what we call it matter?” Tim asked. “If we know it’s a changeling, then we know how to deal with it.”

“Well, yes,” Martin said hesitantly, “it hasn’t come back since I saw it.”

“What exactly did you see?” Sasha asked.

Martin reluctantly told them. He left Daisy’s involvement out of this, just saying that he heard about it from a friend. Tim’s eyes narrowed when he said that but Martin thought nothing of it. “…and then I ran back to the road and that was it.”

“The Queen of the Uncanny,” Tim said lowly, “that’s what you called that faceless fai—the faceless one.”

“Yeah, that was what Annabelle called the leader of that Court.” Martin said, not quite understanding Tim’s reaction to the fairy’s description. He was incredibly agitated, wringing his hands under the table, jaw clenched. “Tim, are you okay?”

Tim glared at the table. “I’m fine.” He lied in a voice that brokered no further discussion.

Martin looked away from him as Tim’s face seemed to slowly crumple. He felt as though he was intruding on something but he had no idea what. Instead, Martin looked over at Sasha who had the strangest expression on her face. At first glance, it was innocent concern and sympathy but the longer Martin stared at Sasha, the more artificial it looked. Martin didn’t know if he was just projecting what he thought might be there, but it looked like Sasha was biting back laughter. Either way, Martin was on high alert.

“Sasha,” he said, breaking the silence, “did you ever end up trying the honey?”

“What?” Sasha jerked her head to look at Martin in confusion.

“Just making conversation, you know…” Martin mumbled, looking embarrassed while watching her as carefully as he could manage.

He nodded his head at Tim and Sasha’s eyes widened theatrically. “Oh, right…”

“But yeah, did you ever try it?” Martin asked.

“Obviously I’ve had honey.” Sasha giggled.

Martin laughed nervously. “Oh obviously, I was just wondering if you took my recommendation.”

For less than a second, Sasha’s smile froze while her eyes gleamed in the desperation of someone who was asked a question in the job interview they hadn’t prepared for. Then she relaxed into an easy, charming smile. “Oh yes, it wasn’t quite my thing. Sweet things never have really been.”

“Obviously.” Tim agreed, latching onto this meaningless conversation like a life raft. “Sasha’s never liked sugar, makes her a pain at birthdays.”

“Just don’t get me cake.” Sasha laughed. “It’s simple.”

“Right.” Martin agreed automatically. He knew he’d recommended honey in tea to Sasha, but he also knew that Sasha didn’t like that kind of thing. There was a disconnect in his memories when thinking back to that meeting where he’d told Tim and Sasha about finding evidence of dancing at the huge fairy circle. It felt like ages ago, back before he’d almost died, before Jane Prentiss, before Annabelle. Everything had been so much easier back then; he couldn’t help but feel. Simpler at the very least. He hadn’t been worried about his friends not being human.

“How come,” Tim said, suddenly cutting through Martin’s depression. “there haven’t been as many rings in either of your places?”

“It is odd, only one…” Martin agreed. “Could… could it be that, well, we know it’s one of the Courts, right? Doing the extra circles, I mean. And we know they have a kind of territory and that applies to both the Otherworld and our world?”

“Yeah?” Tim said, leaning forwards. “Go on.”

“Yeah, so couldn’t your domain be in one Court’s territory and Magnuston and Millbank are in the other Court’s territory?” Martin hazarded.

Sasha blinked slowly while Tim nodded long gently, fingers going back to tapping the table. “I don’t know… maybe.”

“It’s hard to theorise on this. We just don’t _know._ ” Martin said.

“It’s just so fucked.” Tim said. “I feel so bloody powerless. Like, _they_ can just get away with whatever, and we don’t know why or how they’re doing anything!”

Martin nodded solemnly, and tried not to look at Sasha. He didn’t want to be obvious. The conversation continued. Martin couldn’t properly pay attention to it, too paranoid about Sasha. He was certain it wasn’t Sasha, not really. The inconsistencies in his memories, the Weaving, the pookas’ warning, all of it adding up to a deeply unsettling picture. The meeting eventually ended, Martin had no idea how, too lost inside his worries about the thing sitting beside him that was not his friend.

When the three of them left the pub, Martin tried desperately to subtly separate himself and Tim from Sasha. He wasn’t certain how successful he was in his manoeuvring going unnoticed but it was successful. Tim accompanied Martin to his parked car, broom tossed over a shoulder. Martin desperately wanted to tell Tim about his suspicions but every time Martin opened his mouth, fear crept in and he swallowed the words. 

Eventually they reached Martin’s mini. Time had run out. He needed to say something to Tim. Anything. Tim needed to know the danger they were in, the danger Sasha was in, that the thing walking around with them wasn’t human, wasn’t their friend.

“Tim, wait.” Martin said.

Tim turned to look at him, holding the broom in one hand. “Yeah?”

“I just wanted to talk about something, er, further.” Martin said. “It’s serious.”

“Why didn’t you say anything in the meeting?” Tim asked, then backtracked really how hostile he sounded. “Hey, look, it’s okay. If you’re nervous about something. You can tell me.”

“Yeah, I hope so,” Martin mumbled. “Okay, it’s about Sasha, and I didn’t want…” Martin trailed off. There was no easy way to have this conversation. “The thing is, when I did my Weaving, I didn’t do it of just Magnuston, also Conventry and Millbank.”

“Alright,” Tim said, not entirely sure where Martin was going with this.

“And Tim, Millbank, it was in such a terrible condition. Everyone was terrified. They weren’t sure of what- or I couldn’t tell- but they felt deeply, _deeply_ unsafe.” Martin said earnestly.

“What are you saying?” Tim asked suspiciously. 

“I’m saying—” Martin stopped, took a deep breath and continued, “I’m saying that Sasha’s lying, at the very least. In fact, I don’t think she’s Sasha at all. She was _wrong_ in the Weaving. I think she’s been replaced like Graham was.”

“No, not Sasha. Never Sasha.” Tim said backing away from Martin.

“Listen Tim, you need to believe me, the Lying Twins were told me—”

“And why should believe _anything_ they say?” Tim snapped. “They _lie_ , there’s no reason to trust them, especially over Sasha!”

“I know Tim, but it’s not just what they said, there’s inconsistencies. I know I told Sasha to try honey because she likes sweet things, except Sasha now doesn’t like sugar—”

“I’ve known Sasha for years, I would know if she was replaced!” Tim was getting properly angry.

“Except you wouldn’t.” Martin implored. “That’s the whole point. Trust me—”

“Over Sasha?” Tim asked. “Trust a pair of fairies, a handful of misremember details and a magic you yourself have said can be inconsistent?”

Martin gasped both from hurt and from Tim using the _word_ out loud. “Tim, what are you thinking, calling them the-the f-word.”

“I don’t care.” Tim said wildly. “Because we’re in town, a town Sasha has been protecting from fairies so we’re safe.”

“No, Tim,” Martin implored. “You heard what I was saying, Sasha’s probably been setting up Millbank to be susceptible to the gentry. You can’t be so reckless.”

“ _You’re_ the one going around accusing people of being replaced.” Tim said.

“I _know_ that’s not Sasha.” Martin snapped. “Look, if you would just listen—”

“No.” Tim said swinging onto his broom. “I’ve heard enough.”

“ _Tim—”_ Martin tried but Tim was already flying away and with him, Martin’s hope for help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, I am back. Next week's update is still slightly up in the air but some pressure has lifted on my work load so fingers crossed!  
> Anyways, cat's out of the bag now, Martin's sure of his theory. Shame Tim isn't. 
> 
> Next chapter: Martin makes Jon tea and Tim thinks some things over.


	19. Chapter 19

Tim was pacing. He needed to move. He was too caught up in _everything._ There was just too much and it all seemed to be falling on his shoulders alone. It was all about the fairies, because it was always about the bloody fairies, so he couldn’t go to any of his normal friends for support. Not that he had many of those left. They’d all just drifted apart.

Tim had tried to go to Martin and Sasha for help but Sasha seemed entirely caught in her own world where nothing was seriously wrong and as for _Martin_ —Tim didn’t know what to think about Martin. The man must be growing paranoid. Learning that someone had been replaced by a fairy in a way that made it impossible to notice the change? Yeah, that’d fuck anyone up. If Tim was being honest, the notion was deeply unsettling to him and he kept wondering whether anyone in Conventry had been replaced but accusing _Sasha_? That Tim couldn’t understand.

Okay, he could admit that he was biased. He loved Sasha. A lot. Whether romantically or platonically he genuinely wasn’t sure but he did know that she was a corner stone in his life. Tim had been living in London for years before he moved back and when he did move back… people kept looking at him with such pity. Handling him with kid gloves as though he might breakdown into tears at any moment. It had been infuriating and had only added to what called be called generously ‘grief induced outbursts’. It was why he grew so close to Sasha so fast. They’d already vaguely knew of each other but she wasn’t constantly looking at him and only seeing his family’s shadow.

Sasha had just weaselled her way into his life, helping him with his study of witchcraft. She took it seriously, actually trying to understand why he wanted to become a witch. Tim was too used to people giving him sympathy and then talking about how ‘it was a rather odd way to process loss, he’s always been a bit of a strange one’ as soon as his back was turned. Still, it was easier than his parents pre-emptively mourning him. But Sasha had just treated him normally. She’d been kind but also had no hesitation to call him out on his bullshit, something he really appreciated. When Tim had told her about what exactly happened with Danny, she’d taken it seriously, vowed to help him in his burning revenge quest.

And she had. She’d been right behind him every step of the way. Tim liked to think he helped her as much as she helped him. He’d been there for her when Gertrude died and through every frustration she’d faced trying to pick up where Gertrude had left off. So Sasha couldn’t be a fairy, she just couldn’t be. Because Tim knew her. And when was she supposedly replaced? A week ago? A month? A year? If Martin was right then all of Tim’s memories of his best friend were fake. He may have never even known Sasha, she could’ve been replaced years ago or if it was more recent and Tim hadn’t noticed, then were any of his memories real? Or were they just some delusion a fairy had decided to drop into his head? And what was he supposed to do with that?

Martin couldn’t be right. He just couldn’t be. Because that left him right back where he’d been when Danny died. Alone. Except this time, it would be worse because he’d had a friend and lost them again. And this time he’d had the knowledge, the power to stop someone he loved being snatched away from him by fairies and had failed. And nothing he’d done in the past five years since Danny’s death had been worth anything.

So, Tim couldn’t allow Martin to be right.

Martin couldn’t be right.

But…

But what if he was? What if Sasha was gone, and there was a fairy parading around as her. And Tim ignored that, allowing it to keep going. Wouldn’t that be worse? Allowing, even unknowingly, for Sasha to be killed, replaced would be infinitively worse and Tim doing _nothing_ was… Tim didn’t know if he’d be able to live with himself.

So, he should just check. Because Martin probably, almost definitely was wrong and if Martin was wrong then Tim doing a scrying was no big deal. And Martin was almost definitely wrong, what was there to lose? And if Martin was right, as unlikely and impossible as that notion was, then Tim needed to know. He couldn’t let it continue. He owed Sasha that much.

Tim walked into his kitchen and pulled out his scrying bowl. He filled it halfway with boiled water, waited for it to cool before adding a potion and a handful of ground clear quartz for clarity. He stirred the mixture a couple times until it was smooth. He carefully settled the bowl down on the coffee table and leaned over it, lighting a scented candle beside. The candle didn’t help, he just liked the smell.

Tim in breathed deeply, held for several seconds and let it out. He repeated this several times, properly centring himself and turned to his scrying bowl. The lack of ominous Latin chanting had always struck Tim as a bit disappointing. At least as far as his research had shown there was no official incantation although Gertrude had, after being pressed, told him that scrying was often helped by having something meaningless to do in combination, hence the stereotype of the chanting. Tim had found simply rhythmically tapping the table to work best for him.

Tim tapped the table, alternating fingers, beats and tempo. The water in the bowl rippled from the vibrations, the quartz glittering under the surface cast a rainbow into the ripples. It almost looked like dappled sunlight. Yes, there was the yellow sunshine and there were the green leaves and the deep amber tree bark. A silver birch, yellowing leaves stood out amongst the darker wood and in front of it walked Sasha. The water rippled more around her as she moved, making her unclear. Her bright yellow shirt was the easiest part if her to make out, so Tim focused on that.

The trees and background shifted as Sasha walked onwards through the forest. Where was she going, Tim couldn’t help but wonder. Probably just checking for fairy rings or—or something reasonable. Because Sasha was reasonable and there was no need to be suspicious of her. It was Sasha.

The figure in the yellow shirt walked into a clearing where a fairy ring sat.

It wasn’t Sasha.

…

Martin surveyed his sitting room for what had to be the fifth time in the past twenty minutes. It was neat, tidy even but was it tidy enough? Martin straightened the sofa cushions again. Maybe he should’ve asked Rosie to borrow her duster. He was sure she’d have one. He’d tried to clean away all possible dust with a cloth but he was still concerned. Martin just really wanted his cottage to be perfect for Jon’s visit.

When Jon had arranged their meeting and had actually accepted Martin offer to host, saying he wanted to have a private conversation, Martin had been filled with terror. Partially out of what conversation Jon felt needed to be private but also because he wanted to make a good impression, show off how nice his home was. And then the two anxieties became tangled up together so Martin was half convinced that if Jon spotted any mud on the tiles, the whole conversation would be a disaster and Jon would never want to speak to him again.

This was, objectively, ridiculous, yet Martin had still gotten up early to wash the windows. God, he was such a gay idiot, he thought, leaning against the wall to look over everything again. It all looked… alright. Perfectly serviceable. Clean but still warm and lived in. It was important to strike that balance. There were few things Martin hated more than feeling like he’d just walked into an IKEA display.

His phone rang out. For a second Martin was terrified it was Jon ringing to tell Martin he was calling the meeting off. Then he realised that it was just his alarm, reminding him to take the muffins out of the oven. Martin hurried into the kitchen, tugging on oven gloves to take out a tray of golden apple-crumble muffins. Amy Patel had dropped off the cooking apples, as the tree in her garden had fruited early this year and she didn’t really know what to do with them. They were good apples and Martin always found the key to cooking with the fruit was to throw some cinnamon in there. You always needed more than you’d expect if you wanted to taste the spice, cinnamon was actually quite weak.

Martin was just finishing moving the muffins onto a cooling rack, and putting the baking tray into his soapy sink when a series of knocks so precise they had to come from Jon, rang out. Martin very neatly tucked the oven gloves over the stove rail, adjusted his hair pointlessly and walked over to the door. He could see the silhouette through the warped glass. Martin took a deep breath to steady himself and opened the door. “Hi Jon!”

Was that too enthusiastic? Too late now, Martin thought desperately. Jon didn’t notice Martin’s internal panic, he was too distracted by his own awkwardness. “Good evening, Martin.”

“It’s three?” Martin said in confusion.

“I—yes, but well, it will be evening at some point.” Jon said, cursing his own nerves.

“Right.” Martin said, somehow even more besotted with this idiot. “Would you like to come in?”

“Ah yes,” Jon said, walking through Martin’s welcoming doorway. He glanced down, seeing the welcome mat and did the ceremonial three wipes of his shoes. “Do you want me to take my shoes off or?”

“Oh no, it’s fine.” Martin fluttered his hand absentmindedly.

“Ah, it was only because your floors are very clean.” Jon said.

“Mmm yes,” Martin said, because he could hardly say he’d mopped them just four hours ago. “Well, you can follow me to the kitchen.”

“Sorry again,” Jon said as they moved through the sparkling sitting room, “I would’ve had you over but I have house guests and they would be very annoying about this whole thing.”

“No, no,” Martin said quickly, “I’m… I’m glad you’re here.”

Jon gave Martin a small smile and Martin heart grew light. “Here, would you like to sit down,” Martin said, pulling out Jon a kitchen chair. “And tea,” Martin was gabbling now, “I have quite a few varieties, whatever you’d like to try really.”

“Normal tea is fine.” Jon said, cutting Martin’s burble off. “I can’t really say I care too much for tea but it’s better than coffee.”

Martin ignored Jon’s acerbic response, “Well, you’ve probably only had bad tea then.” He bustled around the kitchen, fetching tea bags and a pair of mugs. “I’ll change your mind.” He’d wanted to make Jon tea for quite some time. He just liked making things and gifting them, doing things for people was just the best way to show care. “Do you take milk or sugar?”

“Oh, just, a teaspoon of milk.” Jon said, watching Martin bemused.

Martin hummed in acknowledgement and carefully poured out the teaspoon of milk into one of the cups of tea, after allowing the tea bags to seep a suitably long amount of time. He sat down opposite Jon, passing him his mug. Martin’s heart did not flutter and his face did not flush as their hands brushed against each other. Jon’s gaze lingered on Martin’s face just a tad too long, so he ducked his head and looked away sharply.

Jon took a quick swig of the tea to distract himself from the blush on his face. He was suddenly very grateful for his darker skin disguising it. The tea was hot and burned the inside of his mouth but it was sweet and warm and Jon knew he wanted more. He took a second, more cautious sip, blowing on it first to cool the liquid.

Martin watched him do all this, a small grin tucked under his own mug of tea. “So, do you like it?”

“What—oh well, yes, I suppose it is rather good.” Jon mumbled. He glanced over to the kitchen window where Martin’s herbs were growing. “You grow plants?”

“Oh yes,” Martin said, happy to talk about his gardening. He launched into a description of the various plants, their needs and properties. He liked talking about which were useful for healing or just for pure taste. Jon nodded along, eagerly listening. He was rather fascinated by how Martin’s face lit up as he explained them. It was something Martin cared about, so Jon felt himself easily drawn into it as well.

Although he did turn down Martin’s offer to meet the plants. He didn’t trust that the dirt might spill and then where would he be? That thought effectively killed the easy smile that had been gracing his face, as Jon remembered the purpose of his visit. Telling Martin about his… _experiences_ with the Otherworld. He hated that Georgie was right, she often was and it was infuriating. If Jon wanted anything with Martin, there needed to be trust there, trust based on honesty. Jon knew that he couldn’t trust people who kept secrets from him, and was it really fair to expect Martin to just accept Jon keeping secrets? No, Jon could acknowledge that, so he had to submit himself to the mortifying ordeal of being known. Terrible.

Martin spotted Jon’s solemn disposition and paused in his exaltation of his mugwort. “Are you alright, Jon?”

“Fine, fine,” Jon replied automatically.

“It’s okay if you’re not,” Martin said, “you can talk to me—only if you need to!” he hastened to add, not wanting to give Jon undue pressure.

Jon gave a small, ironic chuckle. “That’s just the thing, talking to you.”

“What?” Martin was confused now. “I’m sorry, I don’t follow?”

Jon waved his hand dismissively. “I know, I know, I was just being, ah… I was making a joke.”

“Oh.” Martin said, waiting as it was clear Jon had more to say.

“I just—the thing is—I realised,” Jon started, “We went on a date, didn’t we?”

Martin was suddenly deeply concerned about where the conversation was going. It looked like it was going to be about whatever strange friendship bordering on romance thing they had going on. Martin really hoped he wasn’t about to be dumped without having ever dated Jon properly. “I mean, maybe? We never really agreed.”

“But would you have liked it to be?” Jon asked, looking down at his hands.

“I—yeah, I would,” Martin mumbled.

“I… I think I would’ve liked that too.” Jon said quietly.

“Oh,” Martin said. His whole body was paralyzed in hope and disbelief. He couldn’t dare bring himself to fully accept what Jon had said.

“I like you Martin,” Jon said, “I would like to try to be in some kind of relationship with you.”

“Oh, wow,” Martin said, heart in his throat. “Yeah—that would be—yes, I would love to date with you.”

“You would love to date with me?” Jon repeated, smile wry.

“Oh shoosh you,” Martin playfully swatted him. “You know exactly what I mean.”

“Yes, I do,” Jon said, sincerely.

Martin smiled at him as the sun warmed him up from the inside.

“I think, I just need to go through some things with you first.” Jon said cautiously.

“Right, of course.” Martin said. “We can absolutely go through any boundaries.”

Jon relaxed minutely. “That would be good.”

“Um, okay, do you want to go first or?” Martin asked.

“Alright.” Jon said. “Listen I—” He stopped, collecting his thoughts. “I don’t really do sex.”

“Oh, okay.” Martin was genuinely surprised. He hadn’t really expected them to jump immediately to discussing sex. “That’s okay.”

“It is? I mean of course it is.” Jon said hastily. “I know, I know there’s nothing wrong with being ace but I thought…”

“If it’s not something you’re comfortable with, we don’t need to do it.” Martin said. Sure, he might miss sex but that was hardly a be all and end all factor in a relationship. And there was so much about Jon that was worth any kind of inconvenience.

“I—I don’t know if it’s a ‘not ever’ thing.” Jon said. “But it’s definitely a ‘not now’ thing. I just… don’t really see the point in it.”

“Jon, you don’t have to justify anything.” Martin said, making a mental note to google what ‘ace’ was. “Like I said, if you don’t want it then we don’t have to do it.”

“Okay, good.” Jon said.

“So, what are you comfortable with?” Martin asked, wanting to have very clear boundaries so he knew what to do.

“I mean, kissing is fine.” Jon said. “I’d prefer no touching of, um, well sensitive areas?”

Martin’s eyes immediately dropped downwards and he blushed looking back up as soon as he realised what he’d done. Jon smiled weakly, having seen Martin’s gaze. “Yeah, there but also, um, the chest and thighs…”

“Is the neck alright?” Martin asked.

“Yes?” Jon said. “All of this could change I just… I’m still trying to work things out.”

“Take however long you need.” Martin said, taking Jon’s hand. “I only want to do things you’re okay with. You can always tell me if I’ve overstepped.”

“I mean, maybe in the future it’ll change?” Jon said hesitantly. “I just don’t know how my boundaries will be going forward.”

“Well, if you need to change them you can always tell me. These don’t have to be the _rules now and forever.”_ Martin said that last part in a silly imitation of Jon’s voice and was delighted to see Jon crack a small smile.

“Do—do you have any, um, discomforts or, well I mean, boundaries.” Jon said clumsily.

“I… not anything so obvious I can immediately think of,” Martin said, trying to think. It was so hard to know what you needed until you suddenly needed it. “Just, I don’t know, be direct? I don’t like when people dither around an issue being deliberately vague. Just-just tell me.”

“I, uh, I think I can do that.” Jon said, slightly sheepishly.

“Yeah, you can be pretty blunt.” Martin said bluntly.

Jon looked faintly insulted and opened his mouth to dispute the claim, then thought better of it as he remember his general _everything_. “Fine.” Martin chuckled at Jon’s indignation. It reminded him of a sulking cat.

“I-I hope this works.” Martin said after a pause. “Us, I mean.”

“Yeah,” Jon said, “I’d like that too.” They both stared into each other’s faces, drinking in one another.

“ _Oh,_ ” Martin said suddenly, cutting off the painful intimacy. “I made muffins.”

“Oh, that sounds… very nice.” Jon said gathering himself.

Martin stood up and went over to the rack where the muffins were cooling. “They’re apple—apple crumble I mean—and they should still be warm.”

“That’s nice.” Jon said because he had the emotional maturity of a lobster sometimes and feelings were scary. Martin plucked a pair of muffins onto plates and brought them over to the table.

“Should go well with the tea,” Martin said. “Oh, unless you’re finished the tea? I can make some more if you need to.”

“I still have tea,” Jon titled his mug so Martin could see the remaining liquid. “It’s—it’s very good.” Jon mumbled.

“Better than your average tea?” Martin teased.

“Yes, it is.” Jon said honestly, taking Martin aback.

“Oh, good.” Martin said and went to take a bite of his muffin to cover any embarrassment. Jon mirrored the act. Surprise rippled over his face as he chewed the muffin. It was very good. Airy and slightly moist, with a strong apple flavour complimented by the cinnamon. The oats on top were a definitely a choice Jon would’ve never considered but not an unwelcome one. It was just a good muffin.

“I’ve never really done all that much baking.” Jon told Martin. “Could never really get a handle on it.”

“Really?” Martin was surprised, “I mean baking’s a science.”

“Yes, that’s what people _say_ ,” Jon grouched, “but anytime I follow a recipe, to a tee mind you, it always came out burnt.”

“Why didn’t you just put them in for less time?” Martin asked.

Jon opened his mouth. Closed it again. Then stared into the distance, the face of a man who’d had the secrets to the universe sitting in front of him and never realised. “Because I didn’t think of that.”

Martin laughed and Jon mustered his defence. “No, no you see, if it’s a science, then my oven shouldn’t change things. I should just be _sticking_ to the recipe no matter what external factors—”

“That’s not how cooking works.” Martin said between laughs. “You need to adapt to your circumstance. You _know_ this.”

“I—well I didn’t think about that with baking.” Jon threw up his hands.

Martin laughed and another comfortable silence fell between them. Jon fiddled nervously with the handle of his mug before looking up at Martin. “Listen, Martin, I didn’t just want to talk about maybe dating—although I’m very glad to have.”

“Yeah, me too!” Martin interjected.

“Of course,” Jon said distracted by his nerves, “well, I just thought—I rather owed you an explanation of, um, everything.”

“Oh Jon,” Martin said, heart hammering in his chest, “only if you’re comfortable, I don’t want to put pressure on you.”

“No, I need to this. I want to do this.” Jon said and steeled himself. He knew this wasn’t going to be easy, laying his history out bare. He was so embarrassed by his past self and all the _stupid_ decisions he’d made. He hoped Martin wouldn’t judge him too harshly. “When I was 26, I met James Wright. I thought he was just some wealthy man, I thought. Owned a lot of the area, in charge of the Magnus Estate, patronised a lot of businesses and I worked in the bookshop—it was going to be mine. It was my dad’s before he died.”

Martin felt a twinge of sympathy at the mention on the loss. It must’ve shown on his face because Jon was quick to dismiss it. “It’s fine. He and my mum died when I was too young to really know them. Honestly, I’ve mostly forgotten them. It was my grandmother who raised me. She… she did her best.” Jon shrugged, keen to move past his childhood.

“Anyway, James had a lot of dealings with the store and so I met him.” Jon said. “I was… not the easiest to get along with, if I’m being perfectly honest and James was nice. Acted like he respected my intelligence and valued my thoughts. I suppose we became friends. Or at least that’s what I thought was going on.” Jon paused here. It was difficult to talk about how quickly he’d trusted Elias, how easy he must have been to manipulate, practically gift wrapped. “It’s stupid, but I always remember how much he’d compliment my eyes. I just found it a strange thing to focus on.”

“Was James…” Martin trailed off, unsure how to ask the question.

“Yes, James was a member of a Court, the Watching Court specifically.” Jon said, in a defeated voice. “I somehow didn’t notice that I was telling everything to the Usurping Watcher himself. Just gave him my name, and emotions and bloody _everything_ just because he asked. Because he seemed to care. I was so naïve. He knew just how to manipulate me.” Jon started pulling at his hair in anger at his past self, becoming increasingly distressed.

“Hey,” Martin took both Jon’s hands in his. “hey, don’t talk about yourself like that. You didn’t know. You couldn’t have known. You were being manipulated, you said it yourself. How could it have been your fault when something so much more evil was trying to use your trust as a weapon. Don’t blame yourself, Jon. You’re only human.” Jon’s hands stilled in Martins and he looked away, shame and guilt eating him up. “Listen, Jon, we can stop if you need to—”

“—No!” Jon interrupted Martin. “I—You need to know.”

“I don’t,” Martin insisted, fighting that cloying part of him that was desperately curious. He didn’t need to fuel that, not if it meant hurting Jon.

“I want to,” Jon said softly. “I said, I wanted to.”

“Okay,” Martin said equally softly, “if you’re certain.”

Jon nodded a couple times, trying to find where he’d left off. “So James Wright is Elias Bouchard, they’re both just aliases for the same being. And he—I ended up following him into the Otherworld because I was curious and I trusted him not to—I thought he was helping me—I thought—”

A sudden deafening knocking came through the silence. Jon jerked away from Martin in surprise and Martin glanced through the sitting room through to the hall and the front door. He turned back to Jon. “We can just ignore—”

Almost in direct response to Martin’s words, the banging got louder, accompanied by a voice yelling for Martin to open up. Martin blinked very deliberately. If this was someone from Magnuston here for help, Martin would commit murder. Jon gave a tiny, deeply tired smile. “You’ll need to answer that.” He said hollowly.

“I’ll answer it and send them right away.” Martin said, standing up from the table.

He stalked towards the door, fully intending on sending whoever it was away with a good telling to. He didn’t know what he was expecting when he opened the door, but it definitely wasn’t a distraught and slightly damp Tim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boys are communicating! Don't you love to see it? For all of you who were exasperated with Tim last chapter, I'm sure you'll be pleased with his fast turn around. Tim's a pretty smart guy so he wasn't going to be totally irrational about this all.  
> Also yes, I am being evil by cutting off Jon's backstory.
> 
> In other news, my fic for the TMA 2020 Big Bang is complete! I would really appreciate it if you were to check it out [ here! ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27878306) It's a look at the daily work of non-Archive Magnus Institute employees and really runs with the fact that this whole show is a workplace comedy.
> 
> Next chapter: Tim has a plan and trauma to share with Martin


	20. Chapter 20

“Tim,” Martin said in sheer surprise, “what are you doing here?”

Tim was panting faintly from the effort of banging on Martin’s door and shouting for him to answer. Martin could see Tim’s broomstick lying discarded on the grass behind him. “I came straight here.” Tim panted. “We need to talk.”

“I mean, I’m kind of busy—You didn’t exactly—why are you wet?” Martin stumbled through his words, too taken aback by his sudden appearance to be properly coherent.

“Knocked over the scrying bowl,” Tim speaking quickly, “listen, Martin. You were right. You were right about Sasha and the changelings and everything and we need to—I have a plan, I have the book.”

“ _Slow_ down.” Martin tentatively put a hand on Tim’s shoulder, he hadn’t managed to quite catch what Tim was saying. “Listen, I can see you’re distressed but I am in the middle of something.”

“What?” Tim asked. “What could possibly be more important that this? Our friend is _gone_.”

“Oh, so you believe me now,” Martin said pettily. Yes, he could admit he wasn’t handling this well but Tim had just barged straight in, interrupting Jon opening up to Martin, something that was a precious commodity. And okay, maybe he was also a little annoyed that Tim had dismissed his suspicions immediately. He’d been really worried about what he could do. So he then focused more on Jon’s request to talk because that was something he could actually control and now Tim was here bringing in the very serious danger of the fairy who replaced Sasha. And that was a far more important issue, obviously, and Martin was glad Tim believed him and seemed to have some idea of what to do. But also, Martin was petty.

“Martin, is now the time?” Tim said exasperated. “Look, this is serious. This is the most fucking serious thing imaginable.”

“I know that.” Martin said. “But look, could you just maybe come back in an hour?” An hour wouldn’t make that much of a difference.

“What the fuck Martin!” Tim snapped. “How is Sasha not your top priority? We don’t even know if—We don’t even know if she’s still alive. Sasha’s been _replaced_ by a bloody neighbour and you want to just put off dealing with it? Like you did with Prentiss?”

“What happened with Jane wasn’t my fault.” Martin said, pushing the guilt down because it was his fault really. He hadn’t been vigilant enough, had let her and Timothy Hodge slip right through his fingers. Oh god, was that what he was doing right now by wanting Tim to just go away? He just wanted an hour with his boyfriend, was that so much to ask for? He just wanted a break.

“Martin, what’s going on?” Jon said behind Martin, having left the kitchen and walked to the front door. Tim’s eyes narrowed as he looked between the pair.

“Just a—”

“I need to talk to Martin.” Tim said coldly. “Alone.”

Jon glanced at Tim then back at Martin. “Jon, you don’t have to—” Martin started but Jon cut him off.

“I can help,” he said. “if it’s about the gentry, I know a bit and I could help you—”

“No thanks.” Tim said quickly. “We’ll be getting along fine ourselves.”

“Tim, I don’t think we should brush expertise aside.” Martin said.

“I don’t know about expertise.” Jon mumbled while Tim gave a deep snort.

“I think we’ll manage Martin.” Tim said coldly. “I have a plan.”

“Oh,” Martin said, not sure whether to be hopeful or scared. Tim was very intense and Martin didn’t like the way he was looking at Jon.

“I’m going to go,” Jon said after an uncomfortable pause.

“You don’t have to.” Martin said. “Tim and I can have our talk and then we could—”

“Yeah, I think you’d better be off now.” Tim said loudly speaking over Martin.

Martin was now starting to get angry at Tim. There was no reason for him to speak over Martin like that. And his aggression to Jon was entirely unwarranted. He was just about to open his mouth and tell Tim exactly what he thought of his behaviour, when Jon slipped past him and Tim and began walking to the road.

“I’ll, ah, call you later Martin?” Jon asked hesitantly, turning back to him before leaving.

“I- yeah, please do.” Martin said, switching from anger back to smitten.

Jon gave one more awkward wave before starting off the walk back to Magnuston. Martin hoped Jon’s runners had good support. He didn’t want Jon to get blisters from walking between Rowan cottage and the town. 

Tim cleared his throat noisily. Martin started and looked back at Tim, who was giving him a very unimpressed look. “Martin, seriously?”

“What?” Martin said defensively.

“Look, I don’t want to get into an argument with, that’s not what I’m here for,” Tim said, “but seriously Martin? Sasha’s _gone_ and you’re having tea parties with _him._ ”

“Wait, you believe me? About Sasha?” Martin said, surprised and, for the sake of peace, electing to ignore what Tim said about Jon. Oh, he’d remember it, no doubt. 

“ _Yes_ , I said that.” Tim said. “And I have a plan.”

…

Tim set the book down on the kitchen table with more force than was probably good for the old thing.

“Do you want some tea?” Martin offered out of some deeply instilled need to be hospitable.

“Not everything can be fixed with tea.” Tim snapped. “Look, are you even taking this seriously?”

“Of course I am, Tim.” Martin said, straightening up to his full height, “and you know what? Having a cup of tea isn’t going to make the situation worse, neither is spending time with my boyfriend for that matter, so you can quit jumping down my throat. I want to help with-with Sasha just as much as you do so stop acting like I’m being stupid! I noticed something was wrong first!”

Tim looked down at the floor, cowed. “I’m worried, okay?”

“Yeah, I get that.” Martin said.

“Not just about Sasha.” Tim admitted. “You… do you trust Jon?”

“Yeah, ‘course I do.” Martin said without hesitation. Because obviously he trusted Jon. Martin had seen he was a good person and that mattered more than any shady past Jon might have. That was also setting aside the fact that Jon trusted him enough to tell Martin about said past, something that deeply moved Martin. Except then Tim interrupted that delicate process. Martin reminded himself not to be annoyed at Tim.

“But Jon—I mean—why was he in the forest—everyone knows—” Tim muttered. “You know what? Fine, deal with that later.”

“What is your problem with Jon?” Martin asked, eyes narrowed.

“It’s not specifically _Jon._ ” Tim said. “It’s just—”

“Just what?”

“How can you trust anyone associated with the other folk?” Tim blurted out.

“He’s not _associated_ ,” Martin defended. “I mean, okay, there is some connection—I mean there is one of the lord and ladies that seems to contact him—but that’s not the point. Jon’s a good person, he’s not helping them.”

“How can you know that?” Tim barked.

“How can you just refuse to trust anyone?” Martin argued.

“Of course I’m not trusting him, or do you think it’s just a coincidence that he—”

“I’m not talking about Jon.” Martin interrupted, “I’m asking if you trust me, my judgement. Don’t you think I’d notice if there was something wrong with Jon? But you’re so convinced that there’s something there that you’re ignoring anything I say on the matter. Why are you so bloody militant about this?”

A silence fell on the kitchen as Martin finished. The quiet was horribly loud in the aftermath of Martin’s raised voice. Martin’s first instinct was to apologise for shouting but he clamped it down, he had to be able to stand his ground. Tim might think he was right, or even if he was right, he needed to actually listen to Martin.

“I… I think I need to tell you about my brother.” Tim said in a defeated voice, falling slowly onto one of the kitchen chairs. Martin blinked in surprise, not expecting where the conversation had turned. He also didn’t particularly want to be guilted into taking Tim’s point of view.

“Tim, you don’t—”

“Save it.” Tim said. “Look, we’re friends and it’s not as though everyone doesn’t know already.”

“Oh, um, alright.” Martin said, ashamed by how flustered Tim saying they were friends had left him, especially when he was trying to remain resolute. 

“My brother…” Tim paused, trying to find the words. How could you find the words? How do you describe someone who just _was_? Danny had been so close to Tim that trying to describe him was like trying to describe the sky. It just was, he was so omnipresent, such an important part of existence, how could you explain what that was like? Who they ar—who they _were?_ “His name was Danny.”

“I didn’t know you had a brother.” Martin said softly.

“Yeah, you’re about the only one who didn’t this side of the Empty Moor.” Tim said bitterly. “It’s a grand story, the Stoker brothers. One who got taken by the neighbours and one who chases after them.”

Martin said nothing, allowing Tim time to collect himself. He knew how painful it could be to be the subject of a village’s gossip but at least it had never been over a relative _dying_. He couldn’t imagine having his grief made public chatter. At least for him it had only been mild pitying looks.

“Danny was… He was incredible.” Tim said, a fond smile pulling at his lips in spite of himself. “He was always just so ready to go, go help someone, go meet new people, go try something. He was always rushing off to try something new. And he was good at whatever he set his mind to. Funny too, really funny but the kind of funny that includes everyone, you’d never feel hurt by one of his jokes. You know, people used to ask me if I resented him, and I guess maybe I should’ve. He was better than me at pretty much everything but, how could I? He was _Danny_. He was my little brother.” Tim’s voice caught and he had to compose himself.

“I was off in Cambridge, then in London. I worked in publishing actually, did you know?” Tim asked.

“No,” Martin said quietly.

“Yeah, I never really intended to come back to Conventry. I was so sure I was going to go to the capital, live the city life. All fast and full of people. Maybe I’d become an author… oh, it doesn’t matter now. Because both Danny and I came back home for the summer and Danny had taken up cartography, one of his friends had gotten him into it. He was always starting stupid, _dangerous_ hobbies. I thought that this was at least better than the urban exploration. At least this didn’t have the possibility of him being arrested. I thought it was a fine enough hobby. Our parents didn’t think to be concerned.

“I should’ve been. I should’ve warned him to be more careful or take more precautions or _something_. It’s not like he didn’t know about the other folk but he—I don’t know. I think Danny thought he knew what to look out for, that it could never happen to him. But that’s the thing, you don’t know you’re in danger until you just _are._ And then you’re fucked because there’s nothing you can do. You always think that tragedies happen to someone else until suddenly—”

“Tim hit the table, not hard, simply to try to drive the emotions out. He then ran his hand through his hair a couple times. “So yeah, Danny wanted to try mapping the woods out. He wasn’t stupid about it. Always had a compass and his phone for mundane stuff. A torch too, in case he was out late. And for the… less normal stuff he had his swiss army knife, actually from Switzerland. We went interrailing one year. The summer after his GCSEs. Just the two of us. And he bought that knife in… god, I don’t actually remember. It was some overpriced gift shop and Danny thought it would be hilarious to have an ‘authentic’ swiss army knife. Anyway, point is, he thought it would protect him from any supernatural harm.

“God, we were so stupid. It was a _tiny_ thing. You’d barely be able to cut through a coat with it but we were both convinced that he’d be fine with that for protection. I mean, maybe he would’ve been if it was pure iron but who makes knives out of iron these days? It was steel, obviously it was steel but all metals look the same if you don’t care enough to check and we thought he’d be fine.

“And he was fine, for ages. Danny went out mapping the land a whole bunch. He-he really liked sitting me down to compare his maps to the ordinance survey maps of the area. They never quite matched up. I just chalked it up to Danny not being great at gauging distances but now? I don’t think so. The neighbours can play twist your idea of an area as easily as they twist the concept of mercy.

“They killed him. I’m sure you’ve put that together by now.” Tim said bluntly. “I knew something was wrong when Danny didn’t come back. I mean, he could keep hours, so did I but I came home late that night. ‘been down in the pub with—god it doesn’t matter. I went straight to bed and I didn’t realise Danny hadn’t gotten home before me. But then I didn’t see him in the morning and he wasn’t in his room and my parents hadn’t seen him come in and I knew he hadn’t come home last night.

“At that point, I don’t remember exactly what I thought but I knew something was wrong. I thought he might’ve had a bad fall, broken something or gotten stuck. It didn’t even occur to me that it could be the neighbours. Because that sort of thing doesn’t happen to people you actually know.” Tim laughed bitterly. “It’s always someone’s friend’s cousin but this time it was my brother.”

“I knew the general direction Danny would’ve been headed, he’d told me about the route, it wasn’t that challenging and he’d left his notes and a couple of maps behind so I figured I would be able to find him. I think I brought stuff to help, first aid and that kind of thing but honestly that whole morning is a blur. As is the trek to find him. I kept calling out for him, letting fucking anything know I was there.

“I wonder if that’s why they did what they did. Maybe they would’ve just had their fun and let him go but then they knew there was someone there who cared. Or maybe they would’ve dragged it out longer if I hadn’t walked in on it, or, hell, they might not even have noticed I was there at all.

“I remember hearing movement and going towards it because it could be Danny, or other hikers who could’ve seen him. His knife was on the path and I got scared. I ran and when I cleared that hill, I saw…

“It was a ring, I honestly probably wouldn’t even have noticed it if it wasn’t for the dancers. There was a whole group of them, fairy and human alike. I didn’t recognise any of the people apart from Danny. One of them was wearing a corset though. That detail always stuck out to me. I mean, a corset? How long had she been trapped inside the circle?

“It was easy to tell who were the folk. They were the ones smiling. Smiling like this was all some sick game that they were playing. They were just dancing, all in a circle. Almost like a more complication version of ring-around-the-rosie. A lot more complicated. I couldn’t follow the footwork, the spinning, the sheer effort they put into the dance.

“And there was Danny being dragged along to complete all the moves. He couldn’t stop dancing and he was crying. I’d never seen him so scared. I don’t think he saw me, and that’s the thing that really gets me. He even get to know I was here for him right at the end. He didn’t—didn’t know help was so close.

“The fairy leading the dance, it’s the one you saw. I’m sure of it. The Faceless One, the Queen of the Uncanny. I didn’t realise how much body language could communicate before it. I know it saw me and I know it was laughing at me. It didn’t actually do anything, not really. I mean, the dance got faster but it didn’t stop me from acting. No, that was just me. I was too scared to get closer. I was so scared that if I reached in to pull Danny out, I’d just get stuck dancing myself. So, I just watched as the dance went on and on, faster and more twisted and then—and then—”

“Tim you don’t have to—” Martin started, echoing his earlier conversation with Jon. He didn’t want this, he didn’t want Tim telling him this. He didn’t want to know.

“Danny just collapsed dead.” Tim’s voice wasn’t working quite right. “Overexertion it was declared. From the way his feet were bleeding, he must’ve been dancing for days. They always could affect time in strange ways. And you know what they did after they killed Danny? They just kept dancing, trampling right over his body like it was some misplaced stone. Like it was nothing because he was nothing to them. They didn’t kill my brother for any reason. Oh no, he didn’t make a deal and renege on it, or-or seek them out or do anything wrong. They just killed him because it was funny. They _laughed_.” Tim spat the last word out.

“Tim, that’s…” Martin trailed off. Any word he ended that sentence with was one Tim had definitely heard before and too close to pity. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, everyone is.” Tim said. “It was years ago now.”

“Doesn’t make it easier.” Martin mumbled. “That’s why you became a witch, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Tim sighed deeply. “I couldn’t let them just go on, I had to get back at them. I have to burn them down. I won’t stop until they’re _gone._ And now they went for Sasha. Can you see why we need to do this? Why we can’t get distracted?” Tim face darkened with fury as he spoke.

Martin couldn’t deny he was slightly unsettled by Tim’s uncertainty but equally he was sympathetic. What had happened, that was disgusting. Dancing until death, being forced to watch it. That would lead anyone on a bloody crusade. It was disquieting how little Tim had let this show before now, sure he’d been aggressive about fairies but he’d kept the vendetta hidden. Martin trusted Tim, but he worried for him. It couldn’t be helpful to keep all this rage bottled up. It didn’t justify his mistrust of Jon and the way he ignored Martin’s opinions however.

On the other hand, said rage was rather useful in this scenario as he seemed to have firmly pointed it towards Not-Sasha and even had some semblance of a plan, so Martin would let it lie, for now.

“You said you had a plan.” Martin said eventually.

Tim nodded, grateful to move on to his plan. He tapped the book he’d put on the table. It was old, yellowing pages curled under the cover that was hanging together with threads. “This was one of the first books I came across that was actually useful. Got it off Esty. Diary of a witch from the 19th century.” Tim flicked through the pages, looking for something. “It’s pretty incoherent and, in hindsight, it’s pretty obvious that when he was talking about ‘the ones below’ helping him, he was talking about the neighbours but whatever. The important part is that he did a lot of magic with the ground, moving rocks, making sinkholes, that sort of shit. It never really appealed to me, not that good at it but—" Tim stopped, finally finding the page he was looking for and passing the book over to Martin.

Martin scanned the pages, trying to decipher the truly ungodly scrawl. It wasn’t just the terrible writing but also how the witch wrote. The man was utterly out of mind, obsessed with the supposed wonder of being underground. After concentrating he finally understood the spell the page was outlining. “Oh, and the idea is we trap Not-Sasha—”

“The changeling,” Tim interrupted, not willing to give it any of Sasha’s name. “And yeah, get it stuck and then…” Tim glared down at the table, intent clear.

“So we’d need to lure her-it out somewhere to do it?” Martin said. “The forest, I’d say. We need some kind of pretence so it’s not suspicious.” Tim hummed in acknowledgement but made no move to plan the deception so Martin just continued on himself. “We could say there was something strange going on with the big circle. Say it was an emergency and we need to deal with it now. That could catch her-it off guard?”

“Okay, let’s do it.” Tim said standing up.

“What? Right now?” Martin stared as Tim made his way to leave.

“Why not? We need to get this done.”

Martin glanced back at his table where Jon’s mug was still sat. “I suppose you’re right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha! Bait and switch, Tim's backstory instead of Jon's. The ultimate plot twist!  
> Also hello, I have returned and may I just say I hope any Jewish readers had a happy Hanukkah and a happy Christmas to anyone who celebrates it.
> 
> Next chapter: Things don't go as wrong as they could've


	21. Chapter 21

Jon was walking back to Magnuston and was worried. He had the sinking feeling that something was wrong. And yes, it hardly took a genius to know something was wrong when Tim Stoker dramatically appears at a witch’s cottage for help. Obviously, something was amiss but more than that… Jon couldn’t help but feel that something was going to go irreparably wrong. Pessimism or experience, it was impossible to tell from which this feeling came from but he just _knew_ that something bad was going to happen.

He hadn’t managed to overhear much of what Tim had said to Martin, but there was something about Sasha, something had happened to Sasha and it had left Tim devastated. Jon did want to help, really he did. He knew Sasha, she was helpful, nice even. Sure, he wouldn’t go so far as to call her a close friend of his but she was… he’d been as amiable towards her as he could be towards a witch. At least, as much as he thought he could be before meeting Martin.

But then the issue was Tim. Jon vaguely knew that Tim had lost a sibling to the fairies, the Court of the Strange if he had to guess. It was the kind of gossip that got spread around especially with the follow up that Tim had decided to become a witch. Jon couldn’t help but be a bit grateful for Tim’s tragedy to be so well talked about. It was bad but it did distract from all the gossip about Jon. He knew people talked about him, the man who came back from the Otherworld and it was rather galling. He didn’t like being talked about, being the centre of attention. Admittedly, it had far lower stakes in this world but old habits die hard. And Tim knew about Jon, not the details, dear god not the details, but the town talk version.

Tim knew that Jon had spent some time in the Otherworld and that he still had that connection. Jon didn’t even want to speculate on the accuracy of the details surrounding those two facts. The bottom line was, Tim absolutely did not trust Jon because of his past relations with the fairies, so he was going to ignore anything Jon said. So, would Jon’s help even be accepted?

At the end of the day, Jon was still worried and wouldn’t it be better to do something he’d regret later rather than regret doing nothing?

Jon stopped walking and fumbled for his phone in his pocket. The reflective screen ought to do nicely for a scrying. He was also on the Watchers’ side of the Courts’ borders, so his scrying would be stronger. The Stranger’s influence on his sight was something Jon found uncomfortable whenever he was in Conventry. Not that he was there often.

Jon stepped off the road into the bushes and angled the phone back and forth, mumbling a nonsense chant to the Ceaseless Watcher. Doing so made him twinge with guilt, he was exalting the very thing he was trying to escape but this was how he’d learned to scry and it was effective. And if Jon was being perfectly honest with himself, it was kind of fun to make up grand, dramatic chants.

The light hitting his mobile’s screen flashed and darkened as he moved it, reflecting the sky hidden behind the trees’ leaves above it. The leaves were thick but if he looked hard at them, Jon could see the dark branches weaving and winding through the leaves. The branches were almost like paths through the green expanse. There was a boundary in the leaves. A clear, thick line that formed the edge of a circle and standing beside the large ring were Tim and Martin.

They seemed to be engaged in a heated discussion. Tim threw he hands up in the air and Martin turned away. He seemed to take his phone out, call someone and put it up to his ear. Jon could see Martin’s mouth moving as he talked to whoever was on the other end of the call. Tim, meanwhile, was pacing the area. Occasionally, he bend down and knock on the ground, as though it was a door. It was very strange. He kept pulling an old book out of his coat and consulting it before moving onto the next spot to knock.

“She’s on her way,” Martin’s voice was tinny through the scrying and Jon had to strain to hear it. “Not-Sasha says she—it’ll be here in twenty minutes? Says it was already out.”

“Good.” Tim’s voice was more distorted but Jon could still hear the anger. “We’ll be ready for the anything that changeling can throw at us.”

Jon started at that and fumbled his phone. Jon made a desperate grab for the falling thing, only succeeding in slapping it into the bushes. Jon cursed as he had to reach through the thorns to find his mobile. One of them stabbed his hand and Jon suddenly realised what he’d automatically been doing and removed his hand. He glared down at the bushes as though it was their fault he’d forgotten his gloves and couldn’t just rootle around for the bloody machine.

More pressing than his possibly lost forever phone, was the changeling. Sasha had been replaced by a changeling filled. The thought filled Jon with fear. It must be an adult changeling, they were far more adept at deception than the child changelings, who half the time didn’t even know they weren’t human. The adults were sadistic and, more importantly, strong. It was practically impossible to kill one even with iron. Their childhood spent in the human world affording them some measure of protection from the metal in much the same way humans who spent too much time in the Otherworld developed a weakness for it. You had to know _exactly_ what you were doing in order to deal with a changeling, and Jon just knew that Tim and Martin were in way over their heads. This was like Jane Prentiss all over again but they were walking into an ambush themselves, Tim wouldn’t be able to save them with a fire extinguisher. They were going to die or be dragged off the to the Court of the Uncanny and Jon didn’t know which of those would be a worse fate.

Jon started running off down the road. He needed to get to the large fairy ring. He had to save Martin.

…

“So, do I need to get her into a specific spot or…? Just ‘cause, that’ll be kind of hard to do. I mean how do I subtly be all ‘Oh, Sasha, just stand right over there, in that one particular spot while I stand ten feet away’. So, yeah.” Martin asked Tim, as they waited.

Tim ignored his question, too busy prepping the area. Martin cleared his throat pointedly and Tim looked up at him. “Oh, no. I figured that would be too difficult so I’ve got most of the area hollowed out. Not much space it can stand without being caught.”

“I mean, that’s all well and good for you but what’ll happen to me?” Martin asked, slightly panicked. He definitely didn’t want to get caught in the trap.

Tim walked over to a worn away patch of grass. “If you stand here, you should be alright.”

Martin walked over to the indicated spot, deeply unnerved by how the ground felt the exact same in the ‘safe’ zone as it did on the hollowed-out area. Although, that was also a benefit. The whole plan would fall apart if Not-Sasha could immediately notice a change. They were still running the risk that she—it noticed any traces of magic being used, or becoming suspicious of the lack of change in the fairy circle this supposed emergency was about. Martin would have to come up with something.

“I still say I should be out when she comes.” Tim said _again_.

Martin sighed. Tim, at least when he was this caught up in emotions, could not lie. All his feelings just seeped through in his body language no matter how well he schooled his face. Perhaps if they had more time to practice, Martin would be able to remove the loathing underlying Tim’s voice when he talked about the changeling but that was absolutely not an option. Not-Sasha would be arriving very soon. “Just stay hidden, Tim. Do the spell on my command.”

Tim still looked doubtful and muttered something about wanting to do it himself. He was all riled up, coiled tightly and Martin was terrified he wasn’t going to stick to the plan. Which was really the last thing they needed, this plan already required Not-Sasha not noticing anything was amiss, her getting into position, the spell working on the first try, Sash—Not-Sasha not being able to escape either in the moment or indefinitely. Basically, there was a lot that could go wrong with this plan and Martin _really_ didn’t need to be worried about Tim deciding to throw caution to the wind and trying to punch the fairy. 

“Fine, I’ll go get in position.” Tim muttered, discontent but Martin could see his fear in the way he clutched the book in one hand. His knuckles were white from the effort.

“We—we can do this.” Martin tried to reassure Tim.

“Even if we do… then what?” Tim asked quietly.

“What do you mean?”

“Sasha will still be… _somewhere._ Or dead. And, I mean, what are we supposed to do with her gone?” Tim’s voice broke.

“We’ve managed without her this long.” Martin said and immediately realised that was not as reassuring as he meant it to be. “We can go forwards, I mean maybe—maybe the changeling knows what happened to Sasha? Maybe she’s, you know, still alive?”

“She better be.” Tim said darkly and then more vulnerably. “I don’t know… I don’t know what I’ll do if she’s not.”

Martin reached out to pull Tim into a hug but Tim moved away, already shuttering himself off. “Right, I’ll go hide. It’ll be here soon, right?”

“Yeah,” Martin said, watching Tim turn away and scramble into a knot of rocks and bushes, hidden from view. Martin took a deep breath and turned away, going back to the supposed safe spot. He didn’t have the time or energy to worry over Tim. He had to focus on one thing and then another thing afterwards.

Martin fiddled with the cuff of his shirt, nervous. This could all go so badly wrong. What if Not-Sasha sensed the trap and instead ambushed them? What if it managed to escape? Martin remembered the horrific body of Not-Graham. He knew it would capable of tearing him and Tim apart as though they were made of paper. That was to say nothing of the fact that they were doing this right beside a portal to the Otherworld. Not-Sasha could always just toss them over the boundary and they’d be trapped themselves. Martin touched the inside pocket of his coat. The reassuring weight of his iron knife greeted him. It wasn’t much but nothing liked being stabbed, regardless of its inhumanity.

A bird gave a loud squeal and flew past Martin fast. In the silence that followed the bird’s flight, Martin could hear someone tromping through the woods. He turned and looked down the path and sure enough, there was Sasha. Or the thing that was pretending to be Sasha. She was wearing a bright yellow jumper under denim dungarees and her flower covered witch hat. Sasha wore a lot of yellow, even though it washed out her pale features. Martin wondered if the yellow was some kind of leftover from the _real_ Sasha. It didn’t suit the imposter.

“Martin!” Not-Sasha called out to him as it hurried closer. “You said it was an emergency?”

“Yes,” Martin wrung his hands. “I’m really worried, and Tim isn’t picking up his phone.”

“Oh?” Not-Sasha asked, tilting her head to the side.

“I don’t know if he’s okay,” Martin panicked at her. “He’s been so busy with all those rings bursting up, and I’ve been getting more too—It’s bad, Sasha. I don’t know what to do.”

“There have been more circles opening up in Magnuston?” Not-Sasha was a mask of perfect concern. “That’s terrible. What have you been doing?”

“Well, you see,” Martin stalled while Not-Sasha walked closer towards him. Was it in range yet? Hard to tell. God, why could he no longer the exact area Tim had prepared. “I thought maybe it had something to do with this ring, I mean it’s so big, it’s must be important.”

“Oh, I imagine it is.” Not-Sasha agreed, walking towards it. Martin didn’t know if he was just reading into it, but sh—it looked hungry.

“Yeah, right, so I just came up here to, you know, have a look at it, see if anything was wrong and,” Martin just kept talking, saying anything that could come into his head, playing right into how people perceived him. Oh, he was just such a worrier, getting all worked up over nothing, not seeing anything actually important. “And it felt so much like I was being watched, you know? Like there was something watching me. And I thought, well, I thought, that just much be the lords and ladies. They must be really strong if they can actually _watch_ me here. Like, they’re in the Otherworld, how could they be able to see me? Even with the ring?”

Not-Sasha’s mouth twitched very slightly, either in amusement or irritation Martin couldn’t tell. Either way, Martin was pretty sure it was a natural reaction, not a part of its act so he filed that away to remember.

“I don’t see what the emergency is.” Not-Sasha interrupted his rambling. Its eyes were narrowed and even though it looked perfectly friendly, Martin couldn’t help but feel like prey being looked down at by a wolf.

“Oh, right, well,” Martin’s thoughts raced to come up with a good excuse. Shit, time to improvise. “The ring.” He blurted out. His palms were sweating but he was too nervous to try wipe them.

“What about it?” Not-Sasha asked in a carefully puzzled voice. It was too close to him. How to get it further away so it would be caught? If Martin could draw its attention towards the fairy circle, it might move towards them away from him. He’d needed a good lie for it to examine.

“It’s gotten bigger.” Martin said and Not-Sasha eyes widened in what Martin would swear was both excitement and fear. Which emotion was real? Were either of them? Did they need to be? “I swear, the circle is expanding, and I don’t know why or what to do about it!”

“That is very concerning.” Not-Sasha murmured, taking several steps towards the fairy ring to get a better look. “The larger it is, the more powerful it is. The more the Court will be able enter.”

“Could it be because it’s September?” Martin asked, shifting his weight from one foot to another to get a better view of where Tim was hiding. Was Tim ready? The changeling was in range.

“Hallowe’en is still weeks away,” Not-Sasha dismissed, stopping in the middle of a particularly thick patch of grass. “I hardly think we need to worry about this.”

Martin glanced back at the bushes and back at the changeling. It was definitely in the correct position. “I think we really need to do something about this— _now_!” Martin yelled the last word. They’d debated having a codeword for Martin to alert Tim but nothing really worked and honestly, Martin figured that once the codeword was said, the deception would be pretty obvious. Might as well just go straight to it with something that couldn’t be misinterpreted.

Tim stood up from behind the bushes, muttering the words, and waving one hand while reading from the book in the other. Martin wanted to curse him for the theatrics but even as Not-Sasha realised what was going on and let out an inhuman hiss, the ground began to shake and collapse all around it. The earth just collapsed, leaving huge chasms all around it, creating a sinkhole that dragged at the fairy.

Not-Sasha _screeched_. Martin couldn’t tear his eyes away as it _elongated_ , limbs stretching out, spine growing impossibly long, the rib cage jutting out. Its legs were trapped in the sinkhole up past its knees. In a human, that would’ve been up to the chest. One of its hands reached out towards Martin, horribly sharp and promising death.

Tim, seeing this horrific transformation, let out a continuous stream of curses which ended up helping him keep focus on reading the bloody spell. He read another part of the passage, causing the changeling to be sucked further down into the collapsing ground. It jerked, pulled backwards and its two free limbs swung back, saving Martin from a rather grisly end.

Martin surprised himself by not screaming, but instead drawing the knife he’d hidden inside his coat. “Stay back!” He warned the fairy, holding the knife in front of him.

Not-Sasha snarled with rage as it was pulled further into the pit. “Oh, very _clever_!” It spat in rage. “Using magic from the Court Below. Well done to the both of you.”

Tim clambered fully out of his hiding place, holding the spell book in front of him like it was some holy talisman. He was wearing his witch’s hat, seemingly to spite the changeling. “Yeah, we’ve got you. Now tell us what you did to Sasha!” he demanded.

“I am Sasha,” Not-Sasha said with a malicious cheerfulness.

“Shut up!” Tim yelled at it. Martin reached out to grip Tim’s arm to stop him from leaping at the thing and trying to kill it with his bare hands. “Just shut up!”

“We know you did something to her.” Martin said icily, “Tell her what, and we don’t have to make this hurt.”

“Yes, we do,” Tim snarled, “we do make it hurt!”

“How can you even think Sasha is real?” Not-Sasha crowed. “It’s just me, no matter how hard you try to remember, it’s just me. It’s always been me. Isn’t it rude? Attacking your dear friend, Sasha like this?” It leered at them; long pale face full of teeth bared in a mockery of a smile.

“You’re lying.” Martin said with more surety than he knew he had. “Changelings replace people, you can’t just create an identity. It _must_ be stolen.”

“So stop messing about!” Tim snarled. The sinkhole trapping Not-Sasha shifted, pulling her further down. It yelped in surprise and fear as the ground rose up past its stomach.

“It hurt!” It screamed. “I took your little friend’s name and wore her life and _it hurt her_.” Not-Sasha laughed manically as Tim face became more enraged and Martin’s heart beat so loudly in his ears he could barely hear anything.

It wanted to hurt them, distract them enough that Tim’s spell might loosen so it could escape. Martin _knew_ that and yet it was working. What had Sasha, the real Sasha, been like? Had she been kind? Sarcastic? Pragmatic or ditzy? Had Martin liked her? He couldn’t trust his memories, all he knew was that she didn’t deserve what this fairy had done to her, was proud of doing to her. She didn’t deserve to be hurt. It was so hard to stop himself from launching himself at the smug, _evil_ fairy and trying to make it feel some semblance of the pain it delighted in having caused Sasha. Martin had never known that he could hate this deeply, with every fibre of his being but he wanted to shut the smug thing up.

“Oh yes, it is painful,” Not-Sasha continued, relishing their pain. “Do you know she screamed for you? But you didn’t even notice.”

Tim was trembling beside Martin, either from rage or despair. There were tears in his eyes. “I see you now.” Tim grit out. “I see you for _exactly_ what you are! A cruel, _careless_ , meddling fairy.”

“Careless?” Not-Sasha said, mildly affronted. “I’m not careless.”

“Oh but you are,” Tim laughed lowly. “You missed Martin growing suspicions, you were so sure of your victory you didn’t even think to be cautious about dropping your disguise.”

“And,” Martin chimed in while Not-Sasha bristled. “You just told us that Sasha is still alive.”

“What? No, I didn’t.” Not-Sasha said, confused. “You don’t know th—” it realised what it was saying halfway through the sentence and looked furious with itself.

“Yeah, you did.” Martin said. “ ‘It _is_ painful.’ Present tense?”

“Although, thanks for the confirmation.” Tim bit out, causing the ground to suck Not-Sasha further down. “Now, we’re asking one last time. What happened to Sasha?”

“What do you think you’ll be able to _save_ your little friend?” Not-Sasha asked, going on the offensive in retaliation for its slip up. “You wouldn’t be able to pick her out from a crowd if she was standing right in front of you!”

Tim recoiled, eyes widening in hurt. He opened his mouth a couple times to try to refute the claim but couldn’t. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t picture Sasha’s face. As far back as Sasha existed in his mind, all that existed was this pale, grinning thief.

Martin stepped in. “But she’d know us.”

“You’ll never reach her.” Not-Sasha lashed out. “The only time you’ll see her is when you as well are prisoners crawling at the feet of the Faceless Queen when she ruins your world!”

“So, Sasha’s in the Otherworld.” Tim confirmed.

At the same moment, Martin said, “Wait, when the Faceless Queen does what?”

“Our queen will seize the entryway, blind the watchers and ride into the human realm in a brigade of glory and there is _nothing_ you can do to stop our dance.” Not-Sasha hissed. “I hope you try, I hope you try to stop the Court so I can have the pleasure of seeing your skin be peeled from your muscles.”

Martin shuddered and instinctively gripped his knife. “When-when will this invasion happen?”

At the same time Tim said “I’d like to see the queen try.”

“Why would I tell you?” Not-Sasha laughed again. “You are so insignificant that you barely warrant my attention. Thinking you warrant that of the queen, pure arrogance.”

“If we’re so insignificant, why do we have you trapped?” Martin snapped at it. 

Tim opened his mouth to continue antagonising the creature when he heard someone running through the forest. The sounds of twigs being snapped and fallen leaves being crushed grew louder as someone approached. Jonathon Sims burst from the trees like an out of breath bat out of hell, pony tail trailing behind him like a banner. “Martin!” He yelled as he reached the clearing.

Martin heart’s leapt as he saw Jon. What was he doing here? Martin had a sudden moment of desperate moment of déjà vu as he turned around, looking for Jane Prentiss. Where was the rot and crawling worms and dead woman who he failed and was now going to kill him? Was he about to die? Was Jon about to die alongside him? No, they were here. There was no Jane Prentiss, but a trapped fairy who could still hurt them. Jon could be hurt. He was in danger being here. He didn’t want Jon here.

Tim saw Martin’s distress and glared at Jon who had stopped a few feet away. “What are _you_ doing here?”

“I—I saw what you were planning.” Jon wheezed. “I needed to—I had to try to—you had no idea what you were doing.”

“We seem to have the situation pretty under control.” Tim snapped, defences raised. Wasn’t it just so convenient that as soon as they had the fairy trapped, the man who _everyone_ knew had been in the Otherworld, had been working with the fairies, just so happened to show up? “Don’t need you here.”

“I need to—I want to help.” Jon said, straightening up. “Martin, are you—”

“Look at that,” Not-Sasha sneered, from where she’d been watching the proceedings, fascinated. “the wandering watcher. If I’d known I’d be getting an interview with the Archivist, I would’ve worn my best hat.”

The word seemed to ring in Tim’s mind. Archivist. Jon had a fairy title. He hadn’t just spent time with a Court, he was one of them.

Jon, meanwhile, looked like he’d been slapped. He staggered backwards, trying and failing to say anything. Archivist. He hadn’t been called that since—since. Even Elias called him Archivist sparingly when he showed up to taunt Jon. Perhaps he neglected the title so when he did use it, it had more of an impact or because he liked to revel in using Jon’s actual name but Jon hadn’t been called Archivist in so long. He didn’t want to be called that, he didn’t want to _be_ that. He’d left the Otherworld, he was here, he was human. He was safe. That’s what he told himself over and over. It’s what Georgie and eventually Melanie had told him.

He didn’t feel safe, stuck between the laughing changeling and the angry witch.

“Jon, are you okay?” Martin’s voice suddenly came to Jon.

Jon looked at Martin, whose eyes were still wide but clear. Martin, his safety in this situation. Martin was faintly trembling, something bad was going to happen. Maybe it was just the similarity to the Jane Prentiss incident but Martin could tell something bad was about to happen.

“I’m fine.” Jon said, moving forwards towards Martin. “I came to help you.”

“With what help?” Tim stood in front of Martin. “I always knew you and the fairies had some kind of _thing_ but I thought you were harmless but now—why are you here? Why are you really here?”

“I-I already told you.” Jon snapped, taking a step forwards. “That’s a changeling. It’s dangerous.”

“Got that.” Tim said. “But why _you_ for help? You’re from that other Court, right? The one that’s fighting this lot’s Court. So, isn’t it just so convenient that you just happen to show up right as we’re dealing with it?”

“I’m not _with_ any Court.” Jon was rapidly moving into something more heated than exasperated. “I’ve never—”

“Now, Archivist, no need to twist the truth.” Not-Sasha smiled.

“But you have been.” Tim said, angrily. “You were ‘the Archivist’, you were one of them.”

“Tim, calm down.” Martin said. “Jon’s not done anything wrong here.”

“He keeps showing up when there are fairies, why? How does he _know,_ because it fucking sure isn’t just a coincidence!” Tim yelled. “He shows up and does nothing to help, just lets people get hurt.”

Jon looked stricken. “I’m sorry about Sasha, Tim.” He said, stepping forwards and stretching out towards Tim. It was the wrong thing to do.

Tim reacted instinctively and shoved Jon away from him. He hadn’t noticed how his spell had shifted the ground and that Jon was on an uneven part. He also hadn’t noticed that Jon was unbalanced, so when Tim pushed him, Jon tipped over. As Jon fell, he instinctively put his hand out behind him to catch his fall. The second his ungloved fingers touched the ground, he collapsed.

Martin watched in horror as Jon crumpled. Grey rushed through his hair like paint poured down a canvas. Wrinkles sprouted and deepened into as though someone had viciously cut into Jon’s face. His skin sagged and paled, becoming clammy and unhealthy. He seemed to grow thinner, the fat in his cheeks disappearing before Martin’s eyes. The veins seemed to pop out on Jon’s hand, pulling at the skin that suddenly didn’t seem to fit him. The bags already present under Jon’s eyes became larger, hollowing out his face. Martin watches in horror as Jon _aged,_ years hitting Jon in the matter of seconds, decaying his body.

“ _Jon!_ ” Martin yelled, pushing past an in-shock Tim to reach Jon. He pulled his boyfriend of a few hours into his arms and clutched him. “Tim, what did you do!” Jon’s eyes were glassy, the lids falling over them. Martin could tell he wasn’t seeing anything. Was Jon having a seizure? Was he okay? No, stupid question. Jon obviously wasn’t okay. It had all been so fast, Jon’s appearance, the argument, the push, and now—

From far away, Martin could hear Not-Sasha laughing hysterically. Tim was pulled out of his horrified guilt by seeing the changeling pulling itself from the ground as his distraction had allowed the spell to slip. In a panic, Tim lunged out with the Buried magic. He yanked hard, creating a vortex underneath Not-Sasha that sharply dragged it down.

Not-Sasha just had time to scream before it was swallowed whole by the ground. Nothing left but Sasha’s sunflower covered witch hat that had fallen off Not-Sasha when she shed her human guise. Tim panted from the effort of it. He hadn’t met to completely seal away Not-Sasha. He’d wanted to— Never mind.

Tim turned back to Jon and Martin, and guilt rushing up him. What had he done? Jon was breathing shallowly and Martin was bent over him in panic. Martin was talking lowly to Jon, mostly reassurances that he would be fine, that they would all be fine but Martin was terrified. He kept fearing that Jon’s was going to suddenly get worse, losing more weight, gaining deeper wrinkles but Jon was remarkably stable. He just wouldn’t wake up.

“Put him on the broom.”

“What?” Martin turned away from Jon and looked up at Tim.

“If we drape him over the broom,” Tim explained holding out his floating broomstick, “we’ll be able to get him out of the forest faster. To a hospital or something.”

Martin glared at Tim. He was furious with the other witch, but now was not the moment to hash it out. Jon needed help, fast, so Martin accepted Tim’s offer. The two of them hauled Jon over the broom which held his weight, still floating at waist level. Martin put a hand gently on Jon’s back and lead him out of the woods, Tim following a pace behind, head bowed in shame.

Somewhere, deep in the Earth, trapped, the changeling laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus ends Arc 2! You know, a couple people guessed how I was going to incorporate Jon's coma into the fic, so well done for being right!   
> So, we all know that Jon had spent time in the Otherworld, and that once you touch the Earth's soil, you gain back that time. Well, Jon had taken _a lot_ of precautions against touching dirt because suddenly experiencing a decade of time is bad for one's health. The fact that Jon hadn't yet gotten his time back is really not common knowledge, probably only Georgie, Melanie, Elias and maybe Daisira know.   
> This was a very emotional encounter and Jon unfortunately managed to hit several of Tim's sore spots. He's projecting pretty hard onto Jon about not helping in dire circumstance. Anyway, I hope you're not angry at Tim, he truly didn't know what would happen. Like, Tim didn't even think Jon would fall over. Not-Sasha really wanted Tim and Jon to get into a fight so it could escape while they were distracted (and probably kill them).   
> Poor Martin.
> 
> I am also going to be taking two weeks off now. Tragically, not to relax but because I have many, many essays. I love doing course work over the Christmas holidays, don't you? Anyway, this feels like a good spot for a temporary hiatus. So I'll see you next on the 16th of January!  
> Next chapter: Martin goes to the hospital and meets two people from Jon's past


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "So I'll see you next on the 16th of January!"  
> *insert John Mulaney "And then I didn't"
> 
> Oops?

There was a certain smell to hospitals, Martin thought. He’d been trying to work out what exactly it was. A mixture of bleach, illness and hand sanitiser? That was the closest he’d managed to narrow it down. Hospitals just overwhelmingly smelt of hospital. It wasn’t a pleasant smell, the association with illness was too strong, and it was one that whenever he picked up outside of medical facilities, always left him uneasy. The way it permeated every part of the hospital was always the worst part of hospital visits. Well, the most manageable worst part.

Why did the whole hospital have to smell of illness? Why did the café downstairs where Martin had already drunk too much bad tea smell of it? Or bathrooms? Why did Jon’s room have to smell of incoming death?

Martin sat in the plastic chair that had clearly been made with someone skinnier in mind and watched Jon breathe. There was something very reassuring about seeing Jon’s chest rise and fall, hearing the heart monitor beeping regularly. There was a rhythm to everyone’s body and Martin was growing very familiar with Jon’s. He kept catching himself breathing in tandem with Jon and wondered if this was the strangest form of bonding he could think of.

‘A temporal retrogression induced coma’ was what the doctor had called it. She seemed to know what she was doing, even though her mouth twitched every time she had to say the word ‘magic’. Martin had demanded, only slightly hysterically, that she fix Jon. The doctor had, rather patiently, explained that there was nothing they could really _do_ to ‘cure’ Jon’s coma. In a sense, he was unconscious because his body was too exhausted from suddenly earning back a decade’s worth of time. It wasn’t a very common problem, the doctor had admitted, often people who came back from the Otherworld had only been gone for what would be a few weeks in our world, and so generally just had to take a week off work to recover from the exhaustion of sudden time, or they had been gone for so long that gaining back that lost time, simply killed them as they suddenly aged centuries. This had been the point where Martin had lost his temper and yelled that he knew all of this because he was a witch and would Jon please be okay? _Please_.

That had been two weeks ago.

Martin had visited Jon every day. He liked to read to Jon. At first, Martin very carefully chose books from the library, on any topic he thought Jon might be interested in but now he had decided to read Jon poetry. Martin knew Jon didn’t like poetry but three things. One, Martin liked poetry so he wanted to read it. Two, maybe he could give Jon a better appreciation of poetry if Martin showed him the good stuff. Jon probably had never read that much Romantic poetry and that should change his mind on things. Also, poetry was always meant to be heard aloud. Reading it in a book lost so much of the experience. Martin used to record himself reading poetry, both others’ and his own. Three, maybe Jon would wake up out of spite. Just to tell Martin how much he hates poetry again.

It was a stupid hope.

“Now, _The Tiger_ , is the most well-known of Blake’s poems from the ‘Songs of Experience’ collection,” Martin told Jon. “But that just means you’ve probably heard it before, so I thought we might do a different group of poems. I do think you’ll like Blake. He’s quite cynical really. Very critical of society and everything… A lot of his poems are about issues, like social issues I mean. Poverty and child labour and everything. It makes him quite different from a lot of the other Romantics. So, maybe something you’d like? You didn’t seem to like Keats.” Martin chuckled, remembering Jon burping in the middle of _Ode to Autumn_.

“Erm, anyway.” Martin said, moving on quickly to try to save some of Jon’s dignity. “This is _The Angel_.

I dreamt a dream!—what can it mean?—  
And that I was a maiden queen,  
Guarded by an angel mild.  
Witless woe was ne’er beguiled!”

Martin would not describe himself as religious in any manner. His mum had taken him to mass a bit when he was younger, he’d had his first holy communion but he’d rather fallen out of step with religion at about the same time his mother had fallen out of step with him. Martin didn’t miss it. He never really believed in any of it, and so Blake’s very religious poetry could be a drag but Martin liked this one.

“And I wept both night and day,  
And he wiped my tears away,  
And I wept both day and night,  
And hid from him my heart’s delight.

So he took his wings and fled;  
Then the morn blushed rosy red.  
I dried my tears, and armed my fear  
With ten thousand shields and spears.”

Because it didn’t really seem to be about angels, not really. It was about having someone looking after you and once they couldn’t deal with you anymore, they leave. But when they return, you’ve grown up and are strong enough to stand alone. It was something Martin had always liked. He looked over at Jon to see if he’d reacted at all but Jon remained an inscrutable, sleeping form.

“Soon my angel came again.  
I was armed; he came in vain,  
For the time of youth was fled,  
And grey hairs were on my head.”

Martin finished the poem softly, looking at the new grey streaks in Jon’s hair. He reached out and gently brushed a loose strand behind Jon’s ear. “Didn’t really think how on the nose that ending would be.” He said sadly. “ ‘Time of youth was fled’, huh? Wonder if Blake ever had to deal with the fair neighbours.”

Jon obviously didn’t respond. Martin flicked through his worn copy of ‘Classic Romantic Poetry’. “What would you like to listen to next? Something a bit less appropriate, I think. We could do _The Garden of Love_ if you’d like to go with a more nature themed thing? Or _Holy Thursday_ if you want more social commentary. I must say, Blake has the subtly of-of- of a ball kicked through a vase.” Martin paused. “Okay, that wasn’t my best work. Still trying to work on that poem and I’ve just been trying to practice more interesting language.”

Martin sighed and looked achingly at Jon’s face. “I bet you’d know all the best words.”

“I don’t know, I thought it was… sufficient.” A voice said interrupting Martin. Martin turned away from Jon towards the door. A man stood in the open doorway, lit from behind by the corridor’s fluorescent light. He stepped into Jon’s room, footsteps ringing purposefully on the floor. He had an average height and slender build with a sharp nose and rather high eyebrows. He was dressed in an olive pinstripe suit that made him look like some kind of overpaid accountant. Nonetheless, something about him put Martin deeply on edge. He felt himself tense as the man walked closer. There was something not right about this person.

“I didn’t know you were there.” Martin said, deeply suspicious.

“Well, I do have quite a habit of, ah, watching people. I find it instructive.” The man said it as though it was a delightfully clever joke.

“Who are you?” Martin asked as lightly as he was able.

“Going straight to the point.” The man chuckled. “Far more direct that I thought you’d be, Martin.”

Martin stood up, unwillingly to let this person stand over him. “You know my name.” He said flatly.

“You’re quite a figure of interest.” He said, “I’ve heard plenty about you.”

“You have me at an advantage.” Martin said lowly.

“Many, in fact.” He chuckled. “You can call me Elias Bouchard.” He extended a hand forwards for a handshake. Martin looked at the expensive satin gloves he was wearing.

“Oh, yes. I have heard about you.” Martin said, suddenly scared. Shit, shit, shit. What did he know about Elias? He was the fairy who’d tricked or manipulated or did _something_ to Jon that ended with him in the Otherworld. He was also still contacting Jon, although now Martin might be inclined to call it stalking. How had he even known to come to the hospital? Fairies generally weren’t good at human minutia, like the kind of minutia needed to convince a receptionist to allow them into a patient’s room. And wasn’t Elias also a landlord? Very active in human affairs for a fairy. That just put Martin more on edge. This was a very different kind of fairy. One with its eyes set on the human world. Oh god, and now he was here. In front of Martin and Jon was unconscious, unable to defend himself. Elias could do anything to him if Martin lowered his guard.

“From Jon, I imagine.” Elias said idly, turning to look at Jon’s unconscious body. “I’m sure he wasn’t complimentary. But then, Jon has always been notoriously bad for knowing when something is actually harmful.”

Elias’ condescension flicked a switch in Martin. Fear turned straight into protective anger. “No, I’m pretty sure he has a good view on your harm. So, you can just go right ahead and bugger off.”

Elias raised an eyebrow at him. “Now, there’s really no need to overreact. No need to be impolite. We were having such a civilised conversation.”

“I don’t really want to be polite to your lot, actually.” Martin said snippily.

“Well,” Elias drew himself up in a mixture of faux-hurt and smug delight, a smile still playing on his lips. “I always thought the common wisdom is to be polite to, ah, ‘my lot’. Is it not meant to be bad luck to be rude to a member of the lords and ladies?”

“Not really sure if ‘bad luck’ is the right term.” Martin said. It was hardly bad luck if a fairy took offense to a lack of manners and decided to pull out your spleen in response. Be a bit unfair to the concept of luck.

“Luck is a difficult term.” Elias agreed. “Is anything truly up to chance? Regardless, I would think that a witch of all people would want to—”

“I’m not interested,” Martin interrupted, “in _anything_ you can offer me!”

“Oh, how quaint.” Elias said. “I think Gertrude Robinson said something like that. But you don’t have her spine and even she borrowed some of the Watcher’s gifts.”

“You should go.” Martin said, hating himself for how his voice trembled.

Elias hummed vaguely in response and turned back to Jon, ignoring Martin.

“I said,” Martin tried to be more authoritative, “you should go.”

“Such a shame really.” Elias said, completely ignoring Martin. “How much should a fish try to swim upstream until it is swept away?”

Martin looked from Elias back down to Jon. Elias seemed to appear almost paternalistic but there was a hunger under that shell that made Martin very scared for Jon. He wished he had his knife or even his corkscrew on him. Anything to make this fairy stop tormenting Jon. Jon looked so helpless, just lying there, completely unaware that someone who’d hurt him so deeply was right there. Martin especially didn’t like the implication that Elias would inevitably manage to reel Jon back into his web of manipulations.

Perhaps not a web, Martin thought bitterly, that seemed more Annabelle’s thing. Elias was a member of the Court of Watcher if Martin was remembering correctly. Wait, did that mean Elias had watching powers? Like he could be watching whatever Martin does? If Weaving came from the Court of the Mother, then could scrying come from the Watchers? Could he see inside Martin? Oh, Martin really did not like that thought.

Almost as if he sensed what Martin was thinking, Elias looked back at him again. “Yes, he certainly has had better days.”

“Under you of course.” Martin’s sarcasm contained so much venom it really should’ve been able to deal physical damage.

Elias chuckled. “I’d hardly be able to say I’m unbiased, but yes, I do think Jon was happier as the Archivist than,” Elias looked pointedly at Jon’s comatose, exhausted condition, “this. I mean _really,_ grey hairs?”

“You can’t stand Jon looking human.” Martin snapped. Because Jon did look wonderfully, painfully human. “Because it shows he’s not under your thumb.”

“Hmmm, I didn’t realise you did psychoanalysis.” Elias was far too amused by the whole situation. “Do go on, tell me more about my motivations.”

“I—no!” Martin’s voice broke as he went into what Annabelle had lovingly called his Bitch Mode. “No! Just go away. Leave Jon alone! Or—or—”

“Or?” Elias pressed, seemingly just to wind Martin up.

“Or _something_.” Martin snapped.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll come up with something sufficiently scary eventually,” Elias taunted Martin. He then patted Jon’s hand in an overly familiar way that made Martin grind his teeth. “Although, you haven’t really had a good history of that, have you?”

Martin just kept glaring at him, as Elias leisurely leant against Jon’s bed, cocking his head to one side while observing Martin. “No, quite the opposite. How much have you actually dealt with fairies? Successfully, I mean. You’ve let so much slip between your fingers.”

“You don’t know—”

“I suppose I don’t know exactly how difficult it all must have been for you. But do you know what I do know? I know exactly how lost and in pain dearly departed Mr. Hodge was when you found him. Oh yes, it _hurt_ , and he looked up at you and wanted you to help him. And what did you do?”

Martin gasped slightly as he looked out of someone else’s eyes. He could feel worms crawling and sliding through his body, over his bones and around his muscles. He gagged, disgusted as the rot fed into every part of him. He would never be clean, he wanted it to stop, he needed it to stop.

“Please…” Martin whimpered but the figure standing in front of him just recoiled away from his reaching hand, revulsion clear on their face. 

“You just let him die, let the rot eat him alive because you didn’t think to look.” Elias’ voice came from far away and cut into all Martin’s healing wounds, ripping them open again. Oh god, it was his fault. He’d let Jane Prentiss and Timothy Hodge become human puppets, he’d let them die. He’d let Sasha be taken by the fairies. He’d had tea with her kidnapper, laughed with it. He hadn’t been able to stop anything. Jon was in a coma because of him. He’d only been at the clearing because of Martin. He could have stopped Tim or dealt with Not-Sasha faster. If Jon never woke up again that was his fault. The worms were everywhere. Was he decaying? Was he dead? He was definitely dying and all the while the guilt ate at him as much as the worms.

Then it ended and Martin was left gasping in a hospital room, having collapsed back into the chair.

Elias walked passed him over to the door. He turned back to him in the doorway, giving Martin a smile that could only be interpreted as a threat. “I’m sure, I’ll see you again, Martin. I’ll definitely be seeing Jon soon.”

“Just leave.” Martin choked out.

Elias chuckled as he left, shoes ringing out on the floor again. Martin’s eyes were burning and he furiously blinked. He turned to Jon and seized his hand.

“I’m so sorry.” He whispered.

Martin didn’t know how long he sat there, head bowed, holding Jon’s hand until another person opened the door again. For a second Martin thought Elias had returned and fear flooded his veins but saw instead of bland, white Elias, a large, black woman with dangly ghost earrings.

“Oh,” she said, “you must be Martin.”

…

Martin sat in the hospital café, hands wrapped around the cheap coffee cup his tea was served in. It warmed his hands which was appreciated because every other part of Martin was cold. Georgie sat opposite him, cradling her black coffee.

It was strange, meeting Jon’s ex. Martin couldn’t help himself from scrutinising her and comparing himself to her. Georgie was just so very charismatic and confident and self-assured and so many things that Martin just wasn’t. Even Martin could tell she was attractive while he was… well. But even with all of that in mind, Martin couldn’t bring himself to dislike her. Not when she seemed to understand Elias.

“He’s a bastard.” Was her summation. Martin was inclined to agree.

“Have you ever… met him?” Martin asked.

“Not personally and honestly, I’m glad.” Georgie said. “I’ve heard more than enough about him from Jon and Melanie.”

Right, of course Jon’s ex-girlfriend knew all about whatever had happened to Jon. She was probably around when it happened, a solid support. Wait, a second. “Melanie?”

“My girlfriend.” Georgie said.

“Oh,” Martin didn’t know why he was surprised.

“She’s wonderful.” Georgie smiled, then her face went solemn “but she’s had her own… difficulties with Elias.”

“May I ask—”

“No.”

“Fair enough.” Martin took a sip of his tea. It was decidedly mediocre. “But did you know—he can just…”

“Get in your head?” Georgie filled in. “Yeah. Sounds, terrible.”

“It was,” Martin said quietly. “It really, really was.” It wasn’t what Martin had been shown, it was how invasive the whole procedure was. It wasn’t just knowing how Timothy Hodge had felt while dying, it was how Martin felt every painful second of it with his feelings pushed into Martin on top of the drowning guilt he’d been fighting for so long.

“I’ve been told it’s terrible.” Georgie said sympathetically, “Like I said, he’s a bastard. Just winding people around his fingers.”

“He’s after Jon.” Martin didn’t look at Georgie, focusing on his fingers around his drink. “Why? Why can’t he just let Jon go and have a happy life?”

“I have no idea. Obsession?” Georgie took a drink of her coffee.

“Maybe he doesn’t like letting people get away from him?” Martin mumbled.

“Doubt it, it’s not as though Jon is the only person Elias has taken.” Georgie said.

“I just—” Martin snapped. “Why? Why does he need to control or hurt people? Not just Elias but any of them. Any of the neighbours. Just why do they have to—to be neighbours.”

“Why do storms happen?” Georgie shrugged. “It’s not… good by any means but it’s just the way the world works.”

“But it shouldn’t have to.” Martin said. He knew he sounded like he was just whining but he couldn’t help it. He didn’t want to just accept the world being bad.

“There’s not really much either me or you can do about it.” Georgie sipped her coffee then paused. “Well, maybe you can do something about it, I don’t know.” She gave Martin a side eye.

“Me?”

“You’re a witch. You’ve got your,” Georgie wiggled her fingers, “magic.”

“Sure, I guess I do.” Martin drank more of his tea. God, it was bad. Maybe he did have more of an ability to act than others. He did have, finger wiggle, magic. At the very least he had more knowledge on the fairies and how they operate than the average person. So if he had the ability, which he did, and he hadn’t managed to accomplish anything then, what? If he had all the advantages now, no longer with a blindfold over him, why were things still going wrong?

“I just hope Jon’ll be alright.” Martin said, quietly. Georgie nodded in a silent agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, sorry for the hiatus going on a bit longer than promised. What can I say, doing essay crunch didn't leave me with much desire to write. Who knew?
> 
> Anyway, I had far too much fun with Martin and his poetry. William Blake is the only valid Romantic poet. (Seriously, his stuff is excellent, like the craftmanship is just excellent) Shame Elias had to come around and ruin the poetry fun.
> 
> Next chapter: Georgie and Melanie talk and Tim makes a discovery


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning, some mentions of past internalised ableism.

The house was on top of a slight hill. It was more of a cottage than a house. It was old, practically sinking into the ground, the stones sagging underneath the ivy and the slate roof aching. The windows were small and covered with specs of grime that Tim knew from personal experience couldn’t be cleaned off no matter how much you scrubbed. Tim didn’t know exactly how old the place was but it had been there for centuries. A real traditional witch’s hut. The woods stretched out behind it, separated by a solid gap of a couple hundred yards of thick wild grass. Sometimes there were sheep.

The house looked abandoned and cold. Obviously, it looked abandoned and cold, Tim chastised himself. No one had been living there for at least a few weeks, if not longer. Still, it felt strange to see the windows dark and no smoke coming out of the chimney.

Tim waded through the grass towards the front door, not bothered to find the narrow path. He cut straight past the small shed, little more than corrugated metal forming a shack. The door was kept closed with a chain and padlock. He hoped Sasha’s bike was still safe inside. He pulled out the spare key to the door that Sasha had given him after moving in, and unlocked the entrance.

He’d been here a couple times before it was Sasha’s home. Previously, it had been Gertrude’s house, and before her Angus Stacey and before him, probably another witch. This was the Witch’s House. As far as Tim was aware it had been here as long as Millbank. There had always been a witch here. You did get a sense of the history being in the building. It was one storey and only had three rooms, the bathroom being the only modern addition apart from electricity. Hell, Sasha had sometimes cooked them dinner on a pan over the fire place.

Although, that wasn’t Sasha, was it?

The house was dusty and smelled unlived in. Oddly enough, there were no cobwebs. Tim had to assume that Not-Sasha had periodically cleaned any cobwebs out of some sense of pragmatism or maybe the spiders just avoided the place.

The Sasha in Tim’s memories was fastidious. She kept everything neat and orderly. Her book collection organised by alphabetical order, her finances kept in colour coordinated files, she even kept her socks in a certain order. This house wasn’t that though. Even aside from how the changeling had neglected it, it was messy. Not obviously messy, the floor was clear and at an undiscerning glance, it seemed neat enough. But then you noticed how crammed the shelves were and how a bottle of laundry detergent acted as a paper weight, how the kitchen table was doing triple duty as a desk, eating area and general storage space, the sheets hung up from the coat rack, left absentmindedly to dry and then forgotten about.

It felt strange, and clashed with Tim’s memories of Sasha’s tidiness. This had to be a remnant of the actual Sasha. And so, Tim stepped through the house reverentially, for fear of disturbing any of the evidence of the real Sasha. He felt like an archaeologist trying to preserve a dig. And wasn’t that analogy distressing? It wasn’t as though archaeology was concerned with still living sites.

The place did feel dead and it made Tim want to cry.

He had so many memories in this building but were any of them real? How much was a complete invention of a malicious, selfish fairy, and how much were the actual Sasha with the changeling superimposed over? The organised mess had already demonstrated that Tim’s memories were false. And that was incredibly painful. Did he actually know Sasha at all? When he rescued her, (if, a little voice in Tim’s head reminded him, if he rescued her) would he even know anything about her?

Had Tim and the real Sasha even been proper friends? They must have been. Tim had so many feelings about Sasha, _for_ Sasha. It wouldn’t be fair if they were all made up wholesale by a fairy just to toy with him. But there was no way to know, was there? Who was the real Sasha James? What did she look like, what did she like or dislike, what was _she_ like? Tim felt so strange mourning for someone he didn’t know because he should know her!

So, what did Tim know about the real Sasha James?

Well, she was messy but probably didn’t like to advertise that fact. She had a bike but no car or broom so she probably cycled everywhere. Tim ran a hand along a bookshelf, looking at them. She liked hard science fiction stories and history books about the Dutch empire in the seventeenth century. Tim grinned slightly; Sasha must be such a nerd. He pulled down one of the books at random, ‘Tulipmania: Money, Honour, and Knowledge in the Dutch Golden Age’, and flicked through it. Sections were highlighted and there was a small scrawled note in a margin about asset bubbles. It was deeply sarcastic and made Tim hold the book almost reverentially. It was a small trace of who Sasha James was.

Tim spent the next hour searching for further clues to Sasha’s identity. Buried deep in a cupboard was a scented candle with a card attached dating it back several years. She was forgetful, either that or she didn’t like scented candles. There was a small container of hair moisturiser and water spritzer in the bathroom. She’d had curls, Tim thought distantly. There was a painting of a sunflowers to brighten the bedroom, along with yellow curtains and a yellow table cloth. She liked bright colours. Every detail Tim learned, he clung to. He felt a bit guilty, this could be considered an invasion of privacy but he was hardly rifling through drawers, all of it was stuff that was just out and visible if you were inside. And Sasha had given him the key to the house. Tim had to believe it was Sasha who gave the key, not Not-Sasha. It was the only physical proof that he had been someone Sasha trusted. He needed that.

As Tim continued his rummaging through the house, he nudged one of the rugs out of place. Tim gave a small curse and bent down to fix the rug, not wanting to disturb the sanctity of the place. As he pulled the rug pad back into position and adjusted the rug on top of it, his fingers felt a deep groove in the floor. Strangely, there was a draft coming from the crack.

Tim now intrigued, rolled up the rug to get a better view of the ground. There was a square groove about four feet wide cut into the floor. There was a small indent cut into the floor near one edge of the square. Tim ran his fingers under it and realised that they hooked neatly into carved hold. From the position his hand naturally formed filling the hole, he was correctly posed to lever the square up. Dust sprayed everywhere as he did so, causing Tim to cough and his eyes to reflexively water. The hinges were underneath and the whole thing was so heavy. The wood was thick and had a layer of cement underneath causing Tim to strain to properly heft it open. Once he’d managed to get the slab at a ninety-degree angle, some mechanism clicked into place and held the door (because Tim was certain this was a trapdoor) in place.

The open trapdoor revealed a dark maw with a ladder leading downwards. Tim’s fingers started to drum on the floor out of nervousness. This was getting weird. Maybe Sasha was the kind of person to have a secret cellar? Or maybe Tim was about to learn that she’d re-enacted the Count of Amontillado and there was a dead body down there? It felt ominous for that even though that idea was almost certainly wrong. It was still incredibly suspicious. Tim shifted his weight from side to side, uncomfortably, weighing his options.

Eventually, curiosity won out and Tim descended the ladder in the possible murder cellar. The ladder was securely attached to the wall but still, Tim kept fearing it would dislodge and shift, causing him to fall down. It was an old ladder and the rust he could see was hardly inspiring. Every step he took further down increased his nerves. Thankfully, the descent wasn’t long.

The open trap door cast some light into the dark maw, but not enough for Tim to properly see what was in the cellar. He could see the outline of a pile of what looked like junk. It was cold down there, with a draft Tim could not find the source of. The ground was rough slabs of stone, as old as the rest of the cottage. Tim shivered. He’d never known about this place even though it had been right below his feet whenever he visited first Gertrude and then Sasha.

Tim pulled his phone out of his pocket and turned the torch on. The beam of light was narrow and he kept having to move it round to get a better sense of the room. There were piles of discarded rubbish, broken furniture, books with the pages burned out, a painting with its eyes cut out. It was creepy. Tim didn’t quite know how to add this into his perception of the real Sasha. She was a hoarder, he supposed. Still, the eyeless portrait stuck in his mind and he shivered.

He walked around a larger pile of tables and chairs, finding an old trunk. Out of sheer curiosity, Tim opened it and looked inside.

“Holy fuck!” he yelled as he leapt backwards, dropping his phone and letting go of the lid to the trunk. The trunk closed with a loud bang that did nothing to slow Tim’s racing heart. Whatever he’d expected to be in the trunk, plastic explosives were not it.

…

Melanie cracked her neck from one side to the other as her laptop read out the script she was working on. A lot of her and Georgie’s videos were improvised, footage taken on the scene of their investigations, but there was still a need for a general guide, certain bullet points that needed to be hit in conversation or in voice-over. And that was leaving aside the more directly scripted stuff like introductions, calls to action and, of course, sponsorships.

“Audible is the world’s largest repository of books.” Melanie screen reader recited in a voice that was only slightly less monotone than Georgie’s when she had to read the sponsorships. Melanie grinned slightly, remembering how irritated Georgie had gotten over the mattress sponsorship. They still had one of them even though it was one of the least comfortable mattresses in existence. Still, it beat sleeping on cardboard or someone else’s couch. Couches could give you a real crick in the neck.

Melanie did appreciate the fact that Jon had a bed for her to share with Georgie while they were in Magnuston. Even if they used it for extracurricular activities that Jon would grumble about. Melanie personally didn’t see the problem. She always washed the sheets.

That thought wasn’t as funny now as it had been a few weeks ago. It was really weird staying in Jon’s home without him. It felt like some violation of hospitality. Like yeah, Jon had offered to let them stay but now Jon was in hospital in a coma and they didn’t know if he would ever wake up and here Melanie was, still in his flat. It felt strange, both as though she and Georgie were co-opting the place and taking it away from Jon, but also, the flat felt like some kind of mausoleum. It was full of Jon even if he was… not there. The good news, Melanie reminded herself, was that he probably wouldn’t die. She hadn’t really been involved with his hospitalisation or even really visited him. She left that to Georgie.

Melanie didn’t like hospitals. Quite honestly, they tended to be pretty upsetting. The sound of squeaky trolly wheels and the slap of plastic gloves going on, just the general atmosphere. It was, and she always felt rather embarrassed to say it no matter how much her therapist encouraged her, triggering. Being in a hospital reminded her too much of being taken in when she’d cut her eyes out. Melanie had no idea why it was the hospital that she associated most with her blindness. She remembered the pain and the panic and the doctors trying to kindly find out if she needed to be hospitalised in the psych ward. It was the fairies’ fault, she’d told them again and again. She did it to escape. Without her eyes she was useless to them. She was useless overall, she’d thought then. She’d been in so much pain of every kind, and returning to hospitals just seemed to pull it all out again, totally overwhelming her.

Even aside from that, she and Jon weren’t exactly close. They had really butted heads for a long time before Georgie got sick of acting as mediator and gave them the ultimatum of either just never interacting with each other or stop picking fights. This was while Jon was still exceedingly delicate and pretty reliant on Georgie for a lot of things, both emotionally and financially, so Melanie kind of knew she had to make nice with him. And Melanie had definitely resented Jon for that. She’d resented him for a lot of things actually, for taking up so much of Georgie’s attention, for being Georgie’s ex, for escaping Wright with his eyes intact. Many, many reasons to be jealous of stupid Jon with his intact vision and apparently good hair and insufferable everything that reminded her of all the parts she hated about herself.

And that was why she had therapy.

The computer finished reading out the sponsorship and Melanie supposed she was happy with it. Okay, the transition into the sponsorship wasn’t the greatest thing she’d ever written. (“If you like us, enjoy books but don’t want to have to go to haunted libraries for your novels, you should consider Audible!”). She just needed to write in a closing ‘Don’t forget to like and subscribe’. Melanie ran her fingers along the laptop keyboard, looking for the bumps on the F and the J. Once she found them, she knew where to put her fingers to touch type.

As she was writing the rote tosh, reminding people to share and ring the bell for notifications, Melanie heard the key entering the lock and a second later, the front door opened.

“Hello,” Georgie called out as she entered.

“In the kitchen,” Melanie yelled back to her.

Georgie’s footsteps were always loud, a direct consequence of always wearing heels. Melanie liked Georgie’s high heels. They were a key part of Georgie FashionTM, that and dangly earrings. The only negative was it made Georgie harder to kiss. Why did Melanie have to be short? Georgie said it was because she would be too powerful if she was tall, the universe had to nerf her height because she was so wonderful. God, Melanie didn’t deserve this wonderful woman.

“How was Jon?” Melanie asked.

“The same.” A chair scraped nearby and Georgie let out a small sigh as she sat on the newly pulled out seat.

“Verbose?”

Georgie snorted. “Quite.” She then sighed again, clearly unhappy. Melanie reached for where she was pretty sure Georgie’s knee was. When her hand made contact with her girlfriend’s leg, she gave her a comforting squeeze.

“Like, I’m sure he’ll be alright,” she said to Georgie, “He’ll be up and about lecturing us about, I don’t know, wave particles any day now.”

“I miss him,” Georgie confessed. “It hasn’t even been that long but it feels like-like—”

“Like when he went missing?” Melanie said softly.

“Yeah.” Georgie sounded defeated.

“Georgie,” Melanie said very seriously, “I need you do something for me.”

“Anything,” Georgie said immediately. The surety of her response sent a delighted wave through Melanie. She was just so wonderful.

“I need you to follow me to the sofa.” She said standing up and reaching for her cane that was leaning against the table.

“Erm, okay, why?” Georgie asked, chair scraping again.

“Because the kitchen chairs are shit and I need to cuddle you,” Melanie declared, her cane moving along the floor unimpeded, signalling the kitchen door still being open.

Behind her, Georgie made a small sound of affection and went to follow Melanie. Melanie plopped down onto the couch, set her cane down next to her feet and wriggled into a comfy position. She held out a hand for Georgie who obediently took it and allowed herself to be pulled onto the couch for cuddling.

After several adjustments it ended with Melanie sitting with her legs tucked under her and Georgie’s head resting on her chest while the rest of her girlfriend stretched out across the sofa. Melanie ran her fingers through Georgie’s hair, occasionally gently massaging her head. “Thank you,” Georgie said quietly.

“It’s no problem. I love you,” Melanie said.

“I love you too.” Melanie felt Georgie shift in her arms, moving upwards. Georgie gave her a small kiss before settling back down. Now that was a first attack that Melanie couldn’t leave unanswered, so she then leaned down to kiss Georgie on the forehead. They continued on like that for a couple minutes before settling back into an easy hold.

“So,” Melanie broke the silence, “you miss Jon.”

“Yeah,” Georgie sighed, “I know you probably don’t, not like I do—”

“No, I do miss him,” Melanie interrupted. “It’s… strange. Being here without him. I keep expecting him to start nagging me or something. It’s like—he should be here, but he’s not? So, I just have to remind myself that he will be back.”

“It just reminds me too much of 1999,” Georgie whispered. “I wasn’t there then, and I wasn’t there now. Like, I have my own life separate to Jon so of course I wasn’t there but… And I can’t keep being worried for him. I can’t do that. Constantly worrying about what stupid thing he’s going to do and get himself hurt. But then when he is hurt, I just feel so guilty.”

“You’re not responsible for what happens to other people.”

“I _know_ that,” Georgie snapped and then relaxed again. “It’s just… it’s different this time. The first time round, no one knew what happened, there was the investigation, trying to work out whether it was a kidnapping or murder or whatever. There was such a mystery to it and I was so scared, just waiting for news all the time. But now? I know exactly where he is, I know what happened to him, I know he’s safe. So why is it still so hard?”

“Because you’re seeing someone you… care about be hurt. And you don’t know if he’ll be okay. And that’s pretty shit.” Melanie stroked Georgie’s hair. “You can just be upset.”

“It’s not really that bad,” Georgie said, pushing down her feelings.

“Oi, none of that,” Melanie gave her a playful pat in admonishment, “if I’m not allowed to repress my fear of hospitals, then you’re not allowed to repress your upset at having a friend in a coma.”

“They’re entirely different,” Georgie tried to argue, “you have very legitimate reasons to dislike—”

“And you have very legitimate reasons to feel anything that you’re feeling,” Melanie argued, “there are no wrong feelings. That’s what the therapist said, and you wouldn’t want to argue with the therapist, now would you?”

“Of course not,” Georgie laughed, “entirely unthinkable.”

“Great, see now you have to listen to me,” Melanie said.

A lull came, occupied solely by Melanie playing with Georgie’s hair. She liked Georgie’s hair. The curls wrapped around her fingers. They weren’t soft, but neither were they coarse. They were strong and smelt of oranges and Melanie loved them. At one point, Georgie took Melanie’s free hand in hers and started gently rubbing her thumb along the back of Melanie’s hand. It was nice.

“I met Martin,” Georgie said into the silence.

“Oh? The one Jon is pining after?”

“Yes, not that he’ll use the term.” Melanie could hear the smile in Georgie’s voice. She was good at hearing smiles, and Georgie gave her more than anyone else. “What was he like?”

“He seemed… nice,”

“Oh, come _on._ You can be more descriptive than that.”

“Well, he was pretty upset. I’m fairly certain the feelings are mutual so…”

“Yeah, I’d be pretty devastated if you were in a coma,” Melanie said.

Georgie chuckled, “You’d try to start a fight.”

“If I thought it would help you wake up? Yes. Yes, I would.” Melanie agreed.

“Also…” Georgie trailed off, rethinking her words.

“Also?"

Georgie moved from her position, going to sit up. She kept holding Melanie’s hand and Melanie had a sinking feeling that she really wasn’t going to like whatever Georgie said next.

“Martin said he’d met Elias—Wright, whatever his name is.”

“Oh,”

“In the hospital. As in, he was in Jon’s room.”

“I’m going to kill him.” Melanie went to stand up, reaching down for her cane.

“Sit down.” Georgie pulled her back to the couch. “He’s gone anyway. Back to wherever he goes.”

“The Otherworld,” Melanie seethed. “Oh he thinks he’s so clever. Spend most of the time in the Otherworld so no one can get him, and then just show up to fuck with people.” Melanie ground her teeth in anger for a moment before pausing, “Is Martin okay?”

“I think he got, you know, Wright-ed,” Georgie confirmed. “Didn’t exactly want to talk about it.”

“It’s terrible,” Melanie said solemnly, head bowed in memories. “Fucking terrible.”

They lapsed into silence again. Melanie contemplating the best way to get away with murder. She reckoned if she stabbed Wright with an iron knife, right between the ribs, that would catch him off guard enough to follow that up with getting at his eyes. She remained convinced that eyes were central to his power. After all, he was a _watcher_. She unconsciously stroked the edges of her eyes. Sight was overrated anyway.

“He’s still obsessed with Jon, then?” Melanie said bitterly.

“Probably,” Georgie said.

“The watchers’ special little boy,” Melanie said. She didn’t know why she resented Jon so much for that. She’d just been a trinket, a plaything, not nearly as important as The Archivist. It had been so stupid. That was the thing that really pissed Melanie off about the whole thing. If she’d been more careful—

Well, it was hard to say what exactly would’ve happened.

She’d been in Magnuston with the rest of Ghost Hunt UK to make a video about Magnus Manor, supposedly haunted by Jonah Magnus, the first owner who mysteriously vanished. It was a classic set up for a fun video about a haunting. Yeah, it did involved breaking into a national landmark which was a tad above their normal level of breaking and entry but it had actually been remarkably easy.

They’d gotten in, took several shots, spent the night in shifts. But then they’d needed the exterior shots and some of the forests where Jonah Magnus had reportedly last been seen. Melanie had volunteered to do the shooting because _someone_ hadn’t wanted to get up to film pre-dawn. Taking the second camera to get some spooky video of the old building before the sun rose. It had been fine, easy really. Melanie had always had a knack for environmental filming. It was her main skill in the team apart from being a ‘Youtube personality’.

She didn’t actually remember when she got distracted but she steadily went further and further into the forest, and off the path. It probably wasn’t instantaneous, but it felt like it, that Wright popped up. He looked like a late middle age hiker and cheerfully greeted her, saying she could call him James Wright. And wasn’t that such a wonderful use of language, Melanie thought bitterly many times in hindsight. Melanie had instantly panicked that this rather rich looking man had seen that she’d come from the Magnus Manor and had desperately made conversation about anything that wasn’t the house so she’d ended up talking about her camera and filming.

He’d been interested, making idle chitchat while his eyes never seemed to leave her face. It had been a tad unsettling but Melanie found she couldn’t turn away or stop talking to him, as he slowly led her further from the path and towards the fairy circle. Melanie had realised far too late what was happening and by then it was too late. Her legs were no longer her own, steadily marching towards the ring to bring her to the Otherworld.

She’d howled and cursed Wright. The walk was slow, and he seemed to be enjoying her panic. A cruel smile curling his face as he stood, perfectly professionally in the circle waiting for her. “It was your talent for film that caught my eye,” he told her as Melanie hyperventilated, “such a good eye for capturing beauty. I enjoy amassing artists, and I think you shall fit into the collection nicely.”

And Melanie refused to let him win. She’d always been angry and spiteful and, in that moment, those emotions superseded any self-preservation instincts Melanie possessed. If he wanted her for her ability to look through a camera and film things nicely, then she refused to be able to do that. And, with the hand still under her command, Melanie had put her pocket knife up to her face and—

And the next thing she knew was waking up in hospital. There was no question of saving her eyes. But she was free.

She had several other encounters with Wright, wanting to get revenge on him and he seemingly wanting to gloat. He was so disgustingly condescending to her. Eventually Melanie got to experience the true extent of his powers. It was hardly pleasant and she was deeply ashamed of how she’d broken down after he forced the knowledge of her father’s death into her head before she even learnt he’d died in the nursing home.

She hated Wright.

“He hardly asked for it,” Georgie said sadly, snapping Melanie back to the present.

“What?”

“Jon,” Georgie elaborated, “he never exactly wanted to be the centre of Wright’s scheming.”

“Well, now he is,” Melanie said. “We should probably do something about that.”

“What can we do? There’s nothing we can do against the neighbours,” Georgie said, “the best we can hope for is to avoid them and let other people who are more equipped to—”

“Well, we’re already in the thick of it,” Melanie interrupted her, “besides, even if we weren’t, I’d want to fight. You don’t—you can’t always just sit on the side lines. You’re only safe there if the people battling choose to ignore you. And that’s bullshit. I’d rather pick the battles myself.”

“You’re so much more optimistic than me,” Georgie said. “It’s funny, it’s not optimism that comes from hope, it comes from anger. You’re so passionate about everything, including making a difference.”

“And I will,” Melanie said confidently, “and if I can, then so can you, because there’s no one else so incredible and smart and strong and—”

“Okay” Georgie playfully pushed Melanie’s face away as she laughed, “I’ll have to disagree, because that sounds a lot like the woman playing with my hair.”

“God, why are you smoother than me on top of everything else?” Melanie said. “ ‘s unfair, is what it is.”

“Ah, now that’s untrue,” Georgie said, “you’re far smoother at getting those sponsorships into videos than me.”

“Yeah, you’re pretty terrible at that,” Melanie laughed, “actually, speaking of, do you want to give the script a once over, give it your seal of approval?”

“Sure, let’s go have a quick listen.” Georgie sat up from Melanie’s lap and Melanie detangled herself from her girlfriend.

Georgie walked into the kitchen and Melanie picked up her cane and followed her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me so long to write Tim's section, I have no idea why but when I got to What the Girlfriends, suddenly it all came rushing out. I like writing the soft lesbians. I really, really like Melanie. She's probably my favourite character, I just like how angry and stubborn she is while still being a deeply empathetic person. I just also find her very difficult to write until now I guess!
> 
> Next chapter: Basira convinces Martin to do crimes


	24. Chapter 24

Martin glared at his Weaving. He did not like what it was saying. He’d decided to do a Weaving mostly because of how worried Elias had made him. Martin couldn’t get Elias out of his head. …Poor choice of words, Martin thought. But the sentiment was true. Martin couldn’t stop thinking about Elias. He loomed large and had left Martin deeply shaken from his encounter in the hospital. The sheer invasiveness of pushing the experience of a dying Timothy Hodge into Martin’s mind had left Martin deeply disturbed, coupled with Elias easily targeting all of Martin’s sore spots, and he had been left quite despondent.

It had been easy, too easy, to fall back into that pit of guilt and despair. Martin had tried to be somewhat productive, focusing on what he can do rather than what he didn’t do but it wasn’t an easy thing to do. He kept being dragged back down by his own guilt. But, after a while, that started to make Martin angry. The fact that Elias so easily brought him down like this made him angry. And, surprisingly, that anger was an effective method of preventing him from sinking into depression.

So, Martin had done a Weaving. The wool had seemed almost eager in his hands and he’d found himself slipping easily into a Weaving trance and in no time had a detailed map of Magnuston in hands. It was concerning.

The more he looked at it, the less Martin could deny that the Magnuston Weaving was shaped like an eye. Once he’d had that little epiphany, it was obvious that all his past Weavings were similarly shaped. Martin had previously wondered at how symmetrical the Weaving was, how structured, and had theorised that someone, or _something_ , had been carefully shaping Magnuston to its fancy. The fact that it was an eye shape really left little question as to who it was pulling the strings.

Rosie had said that Elias Bouchard owned a lot of the property in Magnuston, he quite literally shaped it. But what exactly did that mean? Martin traced along the lines to the centre of the Eye and found Jon there again. That was not a mistake, Martin was certain. It was a reflection of Elias’ machinations. What did he want with Jon? There must be some kind of plan. The fact that Jon was at the very heart of whatever Elias was orchestrating in Magnuston wasn’t just some flight of fancy.

What was special about Jon? A lot of things, in Martin’s opinion. The way he wrinkled his nose when he was excited or tugged at his hair when he nervous or how he would rush to help people he barely knew or—there were a lot of things special about Jon. However, most of these things would not be something that fairies would latch onto. Fairies hardly cared about kindness or generosity or curiosity or anything _good_.

Although, perhaps there was something there in the curiosity. Elias was from the Court of Watchers, Jon had been called an Archivist. Generally, archivists required an archive and an archive required knowledge. Watchers inferred watching _something_ , so the gathering of knowledge, perhaps? And Jon did love research and reading. Was that it? No, that was too simple to be the only reason. There were plenty of curious people out there, and they didn’t end up with an entire hamlet woven around them. Maybe it was Jon’s curiosity that first caught Elias’ eye but there had to be something more to hold Elias’ gaze there.

Martin looked down at the Weaving again and it looked back at him. Martin decided somehow it was the Weaving’s fault he kept thinking in eye related puns. Martin rubbed his face in exasperation and went to examine the Weaving properly. He was interested to see many of the strands be tied to Martin himself. That was a good thing, showed that he had some level of influence or connection to the domain. Which was what a witch would want. If Martin was a witch. Martin quickly moved away from that little crisis onto another point where the wool gathered. It wasn’t a nexus of power in the way Jon was, but there was still quite a gathering of influence, an old influence seemingly. It was the Magnus Manor.

It made sense that the manor was still an important part of the composition of the region, considering the town itself existed as a consequence of the manor. Still… it was strange. Most of the connections were old, more like a foundation with many smaller threads running back and forth above it, which was what Martin would expect from an old, landmark that caused much of the original structure. However, time had since passed and newer infrastructure and organisation should bury the original lines of the manor. And while much of its influence was suitable buried, there were fresher connections, sitting boldly in modernity. Magnus manor was still, somehow, relevant and influencing the town.

This would require research. Martin groaned. He’d never been good at research. He’d need to learn about the history of the place and its current popularity and management and oh god, this sounded terrible. Jon would know how to research this properly, he probably already knew stuff about the manor. Martin remembered him mentioning Jonah Magnus back in their first meeting when Martin had wanted a library card.

God, Martin missed Jon. Martin hadn’t talked to Jon everyday but knowing that he couldn’t talk to him now, at all. It was hard and made every minute ache. He just wanted to hear Jon’s tired voice again, saying anything. Jon’s absence was a void that Martin had to navigate around and damn it, he didn’t want to! He didn’t want to have to learn how to get over missing Jon. Because he didn’t want Jon to be gone. It was childish but Martin couldn’t stop thinking how unfair it was. That something had to come and pull Jon away from him just as they were finally together. It should’ve been the start of a relationship, but that had been snatched from his grasp almost before Martin could process it.

He was angry with Tim about it but he had barely seen Tim since the disastrous confrontation with Not-Sasha. Tim had apparently gone to visit Jon in the hospital and had tried to apologise to Martin but Martin was too angry with him. Yes, he could acknowledge that it had been in the heat of the moment and Tim hadn’t known or intended for his actions to send Jon into a coma but damn it, Martin was angry. Because it wasn’t fair.

Martin shook himself, bringing his thoughts back to the manor. He stood to go make himself a cup of tea and then paused, considering his options. Martin may not know much about Magnus manor and he couldn’t ask Jon for help, but that didn’t mean there was no one Martin could ask.

…

“Oh, it’s a simply lovely place,” Rosie told him, happily. “The ceilings are gorgeous. Such intricate plaster work! And the _furniture_.”

“You’ve been there?” Martin asked.

“Oh, most everyone has, dear. The primary school has been taking the students there on school tours since I was a child,” Rosie said. “And it’s good for an evening, if you’re in the right mood. There’s such an _atmosphere_ to the place. You can really feel the history which is nice, all that grandeur!”

“I suppose I can understand that,” Martin mumbled. The town he’d grown up in had also been old, but definitely lacked the ‘grandeur’. It was a tired age. Old sheep farms with sagging walls that had somehow survived since Cromwell. “So, you’re familiar with the manor?”

“Oh yes, I would really recommend going on a tour,” Rosie said, “It’s fascinating. You can learn all about the embroidery on the canapés!”

Martin nodded along vaguely. As far as he was aware, a canapé was a type of fancy finger food rich people ate while deciding to defund public education, but he was _fairly_ certain that you couldn’t embroider those. “And do you learn about the, uh, the history of it? I mean, I heard it was left abandoned so that’s a bit odd.”

“That’s—well, it’s actually not wrong, dear,” Rosie started, stopping herself and trying to find the right explanation in the way an expert does to someone who unintentionally asked a very complex question out of ignorance, “but it is a tad bit misinformed.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, while the manor was left uninhabited, it was always owned and to some degree managed,” Rosie explained. “It was just remarkably unlived in. The original occupant was Jonah Magnus who probably died in 1818 and then it was passed on to a relative who only actually lived in the building for a month before moving away. Oh, there was some family reason, I can’t really remember, dear. But when he left, he dismissed all the servants and then no one lived in the building but it was still upkept leaving it remarkably pristine. It really is like walking back in time when you go in there, it’s wonderful.”

“I’m sure it is,” Martin said distantly, thinking about what Rosie said. “It’s rather strange to move into a—a _manor_ and then leave again after only a month. I mean, why would you do that?”

“Oh there was a reason,” Rosie reassured him, “I think it was something to do with the wife… the climate didn’t agree with her? I can’t quite remember.”

As she spoke, the door behind Martin opened and a rather harried looking man with several boxed came in. “Sorry to interrupt Rosie,” he called out from behind his packages, “but this is quite urgent. Need to get these to Manchester before Thursday.”

“That’s cutting it quite close, dear. I’ll see what I can do.” Rosie turned to Martin with a slightly apologetic smile. “Sorry Martin, but I think I’ll have to end our conversation there. _Do_ go to the manor. It’s a lovely experience.”

“I’ll think about it,” Martin said, making to leave, “thanks for the chat.”

Outside the post office, Martin looked out at Main Street. A group of teenagers bustled past him wearing school uniforms with heavy bags over their shoulders, complaining about Mr. Elliot having a biology test so early in the term. They had such mundane problems and Martin couldn’t help but envy them for a moment before stepping back to just try to be happy that they only had tests to worry about. He hadn’t been worried about schoolwork in decades.

Once they passed, Martin went over to his next stop for information, Brew-witched. He ordered tea, took out his battered laptop to research and began his wait. It took only half an hour for Basira to drift over to enquire after what he was doing.

“Do you know much about the Magnus manor?” Martin asked her.

She titled her head ever so slightly to the side, considering his question. “A bit, why?” she said in a guarded voice.

Martin explained the unusual Weaving. Basira nodded along, occasionally asking questions about the mechanics of a Weaving.

“That is… unusual,” she said when Martin finished. “The place does get moderate visitation, mostly Americans in the tourist season, but I would not think a central part of Magnuston.”

“That’s what I thought,” Martin agreed, biting his lip, “it’s strange and makes me concerned.”

Basira leaned over his shoulder to look at what he’d been reading on his laptop. “Is that its website?”

“Yes,” Martin said slightly defiantly. Sure, it was basic but that didn’t mean it was a bad place to try to learn.

“What are you trying to find out?”

“Just… just anything that feels off. Something that could give me a clue as to why it’s important.” Martin sighed. “I wanted to find out who currently owns it. It’s not publicly funded, I’ve got that much so far. Also,” Martin said sarcastically, “it’s apparently haunted. I don’t know how many articles about supposed ghosts or curses or whatever, I’ve run into now.”

“Let me have a look,” Basira reached for his laptop and somehow in about two minutes managed to find the details of the ownership of the land. Martin groaned when he read it.

“Of course it’s Elias,” he moaned.

“Elias Bouchard does have a tendency to show up everywhere,” Basira agreed.

“You, um, you know he’s a member of the gentry?” Martin asked her.

Basira’s eyes widened for a second before her face slid back to her stoic mask. “Daisy and I had our… suspicions.”

“He’s dangerous,” Martin told her seriously. “He’s also probably the reason Magnus Manor is a site of importance.”

“Could he be doing some kind of… magic or something there?”

“I don’t know.” Martin bit his lip, thinking. “but it worries me.”

“We should have a look around the place.” Basira decided. “You’ll be better at spotting any magic stuff.”

“Wait, you’re coming?”

“Yes, obviously.” Basira’s voice left no room for dispute.

“Alright, um, we can get a tour and—”

“That would be too constraining,” Basira interrupted him. “We need to be able to fully investigate the place. Without staff trying to curtail us away from private areas. I propose that we go in while it’s closed.”

“Wait, what?” Martin jerked back in surprise. “Sorry, did you just say we should break in Magnus Manor at night?”

“Yes,” Basira said in a tone Martin thought was far too reasonable. “Is there a problem?”

“With _trespassing_?” Martin hissed, “Yeah, I can’t possibly think what might be a problem there!”

…

“I cannot _believe_ you managed to talk me into this!” Martin grumbled under his breath as he followed Basira. “First Daisy with the possible murder and now you with the trespassing. Honestly, what is it with you two and crimes? I’d expect maybe a bit more concern for the law—”

Basira turned around and glared at him. “Do you need to do a running commentary?”

“I still think this is insane.” Martin hissed back.

“Fine, but I’d prefer to not get caught because you kept complaining.” Basira turned away again, ready to continue walking towards the manor before stopping and turning back to Martin. “What was that about Daisy and possible murder?”

“Oh, um, just when we were dealing with a neighbour, you remember that night I brought her back to the café and she was all, um, kind of out of it. Actually, you know what? Never mind.”

Basira gave him a level stare before deciding it wasn’t worth untangling. The two set off again. Martin had wanted to driver, arguing that he wasn’t exactly in a good position to go running off if they were caught and a getaway car was better than nothing. Basira had argued that the car was more likely to be a giveaway that anything was amiss. At this point, Martin had asked about the security of the place, presumably there were security cameras and alarms. To this, Basira had simply said that most of the security was old, the surveillance was limited and there was no alarm system. This left Martin wondering how long Basira had been planning on breaking into Magnus Manor but he decided that wasn’t something he wanted to find out.

The manor house was old and had a weight to it. The walls made of elegantly cut grey stone with paler flourished along the windows and corners. A long gravel path cut through lawns up towards the main entrance. The forest trees seemed to press in towards the building, as though it was an intrusion in the forest, giving the manor a sense of grandeur as though it was holding back the woods as a beacon of civilisation. This overall effect was marred slightly by the parking lot that Martin and Basira were passing through.

“There’s a side entrance,” Basira told Martin. “We’ll be less noticeable.”

“I don’t like how much you’ve thought this through,” Martin muttered as he followed Basira’s sneaking. Sure enough, at the side of the house was another door. A smaller fire door. Martin watched somewhere between awe and terror at Basira jigging the lock. The door swung open with a squeak of heavy hinges.

Basira strode inside with a confidence that Martin doubted he’d ever be able to imitate. The hall was long and rather narrow, the modern fire safety features looking desperately out of place against the carved woodwork. There were several other doors that Basira cautiously pushed open to look inside before moving on after discovering they were cleaning stores or just an empty room full of chairs. Martin distinctly got the impression that this was a part of the manor not meant for public eyes.

The corridor ended with a heavy fire door that Basira shoved open, exiting into what seemed to be the main foyer. It was grand with pure white walls and two sets of stairs elegantly curling along the walls up to an internal balcony on the second floor. Below the balcony were a large pair of doors with brass handles. On the other side of the room, opposite the door Martin and Basira had entered through was another door, this one not marked with a ‘Staff Only’ sign. A chandelier hung from the intricately decorated ceiling. The floor was polished marble, cold and shining in the artificial light streaming through the narrow windows above the main entrance. Martin opened one of the entrance doors, out of sheer curiosity to see it led to a small antechamber with a ticket desk and a heavily locked front door.

After that, Martin went over to the smaller door opposite staff hall. It was clearly where the public was intended to go first in their tour of the manor. It must have been some room deemed unimportant as it had been converted to the exposition spot. There were printed plastic sheets hung on the walls detailing the culture of the time period and the history of the manor and its restoration. At the end of the room was a very dull page about the ownership and renovation process. Martin largely ignored it except to fume upon seeing ‘James Wright’ listed as the one responsible for said restoration.

Martin gave a cursory look at the early history of the manor. It wasn’t exactly interesting. He gave a tiny bit more attention to the biography of Jonah Magnus. He seemed to be an academic, someone who collected information like a magpie. Fairly standard, rich aristocrat in the early 19th century. The information on him seemed almost bland. Sure, he might have been that boring but something nagged at Martin. There wasn’t even that much on his disappearance. Just a paragraph stating the date he vanished, the immediate search, a few threadbare theories as to what happened to the man and then nothing more. The focus shifted on to Dorian Whitechurch, Magnus’ cousin and inheritor of the estate who left the manor after a year. The explanation given was his wife’s sudden bout of ill health caused them to move to the coast for the supposedly healthier air. Clearly that didn’t work out well for them as they both died a year later. Unfortunate. Their sudden deaths coupled with Magnus’ unclear death did explain the rumours the manor was haunted.

Basira came over to him and scanned the outline over his shoulder. “Does this seem a bit, I don’t know…. Overly sanitised to you?” Martin asked her.

“It’s definitely very minimal,” Basira agreed. “You’d get something more in depth on his Wikipedia page.”

“Jonah Magnus has a Wikipedia page?” Martin wasn’t sure why he was surprised by this.

“How do you not know this? I thought you were researching the manor?” Basira asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

“I—I’m not good at research and anyway, I thought you weren’t supposed to use Wikipedia because anyone can edit it.”

“Only if you’re writing something that requires citations. It’s fine for cursory information or as a starting point.” Basira explained this like it was obvious and Martin tried very hard not to let his embarrassment show. Maybe not everyone had the opportunities to learn that.

“Well, thanks for telling me I guess,” Martin snapped.

“Anyway, most of Magnus’ page is dedicated to theorising about his death,” Basira dismissed. “You know, they never found his body.”

“Well, one of the theories is that he was taken by the fa—lords and ladies.” Martin leaned in to look at the photocopy of a portrait of Jonah Magnus. “Seems pretty possible.”

Once Martin and Basira had determined there was little else to be gained here, they set off to explore the rest of the manor. It was dull. It probably would’ve been more interesting, Martin reflected, if someone was explaining the significance of what he was seeing and, more importantly, if he could _actually see it_ because it was currently the middle of the night which made detailed observation a bit difficult. Still, from what Martin could see the place was just a museum, a preserved dead thing for people to pick over. What was the point of this? Why were they here? Why was this place still important?

Basira seemed to be having somewhat similar thoughts as she too didn’t spot anything out of place. She seemed to be growing frustrated. She still walked with the confidence of a swung sledgehammer but there was a tension to her, her shoulders were slightly hunched and her fingers were pressed into the palms of her hands. She would every now and then redirect Martin around locked doors or one of the few security cameras. They were always laid out in odd places, none near the entrances or anywhere useful but just in odd spots, almost to catch people off guard. The sudden appearance of the cameras always where Martin least expected them left him tense and anxious. It was not pleasant.

And then they stumbled into the library. It took Martin’s breath away. The carpet was a deep green and the ceiling stretched up high above them. The shelves were massive dark wood, slender and reaching up and up to the ceiling. Each shelf was weighed down with books in coats of leather and satin, bright reds and deep blues all lovingly embroidered in gold lettering. One wall had a portrait that Martin recognised as Jonah Magnus. He seemed almost to be watching, eyes following them around the room like the Mona Lisa’s supposed to.

The really breath-taking part of the room was the massive window out overlooking the gardens. It had to be at least four metres wide and stretched almost from floor to ceiling. There were thick green curtains hanging to the side, but it was almost as though they had been pushed as far back as possible to allow the window to dominate. The moon seemed to float in the sky, shining through the clouds that dared go between it and window. It lit up the forest all around the manor which drastically overshadowed the maintained lawns. It made it seem as though the forest was the real thing the window was trying to capture. Or the other way around, Martin thought with a shiver.

There were rope stanchions attempting to prevent people from coming too close to the desk or bookshelves but Martin stepped over it and walked over to the window. He got so close he could feel the cold emanating from the glass but it let him see out into the dark mass lit by silver. It was beautiful and dangerous. He could practically feel the magic pulling at him to run out into the forest.

He tore himself away. That was dangerous and definitely suspicious. “Stay away from the window,” he told Basira, “It draws you in.”

“To stare out?”

“Sort of?” Martin hesitated, trying to describe it. “It pulls you into the forest. Makes it what you want to look at and want to go into it. Probably a mild form of compulsion? Either bring you to the neighbours or just leave you vulnerable to them.”

“That the thing then?” Basira said, moving over to the window holding a book she’d liberated from the shelf. “The reason it’s, er, important in your Weaving?”

“I don’t know,” Martin said, deep in thought, “maybe? But it could just be a consequence. This whole place… it has magic in it, baked in. Like a layer of paint. Something was done to the building and I wonder if the window is just an expression of it.”

“Could be,” Basira said noncommittally. “Listen, I’ve found Magnus’ original research.”

“Wait, what?” Martin asked, “on the lords and ladies? It was just sitting in the library?”

“Yeah, I don’t know how this place is being run but they have _not_ been going through the books.” Basira handed him the book she’d been holding which upon further inspection was actually some kind of journal, all the writing done by hand. Martin spread it out on the desk in the moonlight to read. Basira returned to the desk with her own stack of journals and began seemingly reading three at once.

They stayed like that for ages. Martin was not a fast reader, and Magnus’ handwriting was the small kind with the overly large loops making it difficult to decipher. That was leaving aside the manner in which he wrote. Magnus’ language was so overly complex and formal that it took Martin three times reading a passage to realise Magnus was gushing over how pretty he found a man. Which, okay yeah, was a mood, but when Martin did it, it didn’t take up two pages! It was frustrating but most of it was seemingly relevant, apparent gay panic notwithstanding, so Martin slogged through it.

After about an hour of this, Basira seemed satisfied with what she’d gathered or seemed to think their time was up so signalled to Martin. They put the books back in the shelves, Martin was highly impressed that Basira remembered exactly they went and sneaked back to the fire exit they’d use to enter.

Once they were in the night air, Martin relaxed ever so slightly. There was less of a chance of them being caught now. He turned to Basira, “So how long have you been planning on breaking in to read Jonah Magnus’ research?”

She looked surprised and Martin just raised an eyebrow. “You knew _exactly_ what you were looking for and how to get to it. I’m not stupid.”

“I didn’t expect you to notice,” Basira admitted.

“Right,” Martin said coolly.

“It wasn’t just self-interest,” Basira said, “when I heard what you said I was concerned and it just happened to kill two birds with one stone.”

“Satisfy your own curiosity and help me protect Magnuston?”

“It wasn’t curiosity. I wanted to know more about the gentry so I can protect Magnuston myself,” Basira defended herself, “not all of us have your fancy magic to do it. And with Daisy—” she stopped.

“With Daisy unable to help?” Martin hazarded.

“Yeah.” Basira sounded defeated. “She’s… she’s nervous. Which is fine. I don’t want to push her to anything but with Jon out of commission and her just… out of it, it means that it’s just me left and I have to be able to do it all.”

“You don’t have to do it alone,” Martin said, “I can help you.”

“You’re a witch,” Basira said somewhat suspicious.

“Basira,” Martin was very tired, “I don’t know if you’ve noticed but we’re both trying to do _literally_ the same thing. We even both wanted to come to the same place for the same reason. You might not want to hear it, but you’re basically a witch without the magic.”

“The magic and the neighbour dealing _is_ what being a witch is.”

“Well not for me!” Martin declared. “I’m doing things my way, my way of being a witch and you’re a part of that Basira. You’re choosing to be involved, to try and stop the lords and ladies, and it’s that choice to use whatever ability to act you have, _that’s_ what makes you a witch. Both of us.”

Basira gave him a long look, mulling over his words. “I’m not going to wear a hat,” she said eventually.

It actually managed to startle a laugh out of Martin. The sound of it was promptly swallowed by the dark trees looming around them. Martin shivered slightly, suddenly aware of how exposed they were. He looked back over his shoulder at Magnus Manor and got the distinct impression of a fortress under siege. One that had lost the siege.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter just kept growing and growing, I have no idea where that little confrontation between Martin and Basira came from! Originally they were supposed to discuss what they learnt from the books in this chapter but it was getting so long.   
> Speaking of long, we are over the 100k mark! I am so incredibly happy. Thank you so much for everyone who has stuck with this fic for so long. I really value every one of you leave comments or kudoses or are even just silent readers.
> 
> Next chapter: Tim makes a deal with a rather untrustworthy party


	25. Chapter 25

There was probably a better strategy to this, but if there was, Tim hadn’t found it. He was currently stomping about the forest towards the meadow, carrying an empty bowl and yelling insults. He must look utterly daft to anyone else in the woods but humans weren’t his audience. He’d left behind any dried rowan or red clothes, leaving himself as enticing a victim as Tim was willing to be. He refused to leave himself completely vulnerable.

“Come out you bastards, I know you’re around here,” Tim yelled as he stumbled over a small brook, “I want to talk to you.” He shook out the foot that had slipped into the stream, flicking off the excess water. He _knew_ that Michael and Helen were around here somewhere. He remembered from what Sasha (maybe-Sasha, maybe not Sasha, but he couldn’t afford to think like that) had told him and from Gertrude’s warnings long ago to stay away from the meadow raised above the forest to the north west of Millbank. That was where they were, the centre of their hunting ground.

That thought made Tim’s lip curl in disgust. He couldn’t believe he was going to parlay with a pair of fairies. He didn’t like them and he didn’t trust them. He’d met the Lying Twins once and Michael had tried to trick him through their door. It had thought it would be funny. No matter what Sasha had said about them, he would never be inclined towards giving them any semblance of goodwill. It wasn’t only that they’d tried to hurt him but that he knew they hurt other people out of _boredom_. All fairies were spiteful and cruel simply because they could be.

That being said, they did tell Martin, however obliquely, that Sasha was gone. Sasha (was it actually Sasha) had a soft spot for them even if it was completely stupid. How many times had Tim told her to be more careful about them? That they weren’t to be trusted and that they could hurt her? Tim didn’t know now. He supposed it was a bit ironic, in the end it wasn’t these fairies that took her from the world. The gap where Sasha should be ached because he still couldn’t get the shape of it. He would fill it, Tim would find Sasha. Whoever that was.

Hence why he was out in the forest, trying to make a deal with the devils. He emerged out into the meadow. “Stop hiding so we can talk! I know you’re listening.”

Was it just Tim’s imagination or was there a giggle caught in the wind? Tim spun around to try to look where the sound came from but behind him was just an endless stretch of grass. And that wasn’t quite right because he’d only just crossed into the meadow, the trees should have been only a few yards away. Tim clenched his jaw grimly. Well, he’d succeeded in getting their attention. Next step was getting out of this alive and with an agreement.

“We don’t appreciate being called on,” a woman’s voice said from somewhere.

“Who are you to do it, witch?” agreed a man from the same nebulous everywhere.

“I am here to ask you for something.” Tim gripped the bowl hard. “I brought a… gift.” Even to his ears, his voice sounded bitter. Still, he reached into one of his coat’s massive pockets and pulled out a carton of cream which he poured into the bowl. It rankled him just how similar to an offering this was.

“A courtesy…”

“… one that does not excuse your trespasses.”

“Anyone can walk here, this isn’t somewhere you own,” Tim snapped.

“Most who walk here don’t do it with a gift in one hand…”

“… and fire in the other.”

Tim cursed quietly. He’d rather hoped the pookas wouldn’t notice the waxy paper stuffed in his pocket. If he blew on it, it would erupt into a burst of fire that would devastate the surrounding area. It had been his insurance for this meeting.

“I’m not going to be defenceless when meeting you,” Tim said, “look, we don’t need to like each other to want the same thing?”

“We want the same thing?” both voices laughed and there was a subtle shift in the air and Tim felt a physical presence behind him. He turned around and sure enough, there were the Lying Twins. They were both smiling but Tim could tell they were also as close to angry as fairies can be. “That’s very presumptuous,” Helen said, smiling at Tim.

“Presuming to know what we want,” Michael chimed in, “you do us quite an offense.”

“I’m not going to apologise,” Tim said, “that would just be a lie and you know it.”

“Quite so,” Helen said, sweeping dust off a chair that had suddenly always been behind her, and sitting down and crossing her legs. “But why should we listen? You’ve barely made an effort to entreat us, and I don’t want to waste my time, such that time exists.”

Tim noticed the way both Helen and Michael’s gazes kept straying to the bowl of cream. They were like cats. Evil cats. Well, bribery had always been his intention with the cream. Tim very deliberately, not taking his eyes off either of them, placed the bowl on the ground between them and stepped back. Michael leaned over Helen’s chair and reached forwards to pick up the bowl. Tim shut his eyes instinctively at the sight of Michael’s arm just _stretching_ forwards.

When he opened his eyes again, Michael was back to looked reasonably humanoid. He was dipping a finger in the cream and then licked it. He grinned, clearly pleased by the taste and passed it to Helen. “I have missed this. It just hasn’t been the same…”

“…since Sasha was taken.” Helen agreed, taking her own drink of the cream.

“Yes.” Tim seized on their offhand mention of Sasha, “that’s what I want to talk to you about.”

“About Sasha, the witch?” Michael asked with huge innocent eyes. Tim wanted to stab them. “It was a shame.”

“Really was,” Helen agreed, “even after everything we did for her. Terribly predictable.”

“You… knew ahead of time what would happen to her?” Tim asked slowly.

“We tried to warn her, told her what was waiting for her. Foolish little thing didn’t know how to listen.” Michael sighed.

“Don’t talk about her like that!” Tim’s anger was boiling over. “If you actually cared anything about her you would have stopped anything from happening to her. You could’ve and you didn’t so don’t just stand there and say what a shame it is that she’s g-gone because she didn’t understand whatever cryptic warning you gave her!”

There was a long pause. Helen cocked her head to one side and examined him. “I’m trying to decide whether you’re very brave or simply stupid.”

“Is there any meaningful difference?” Michael asked, examining his hands.

“Depends on the perspective but perspective is, of course…”

“… entirely changeable. What is perspective is thought…”

“… and what is thought but mind? And mind is entirely malleable.”

Tim blinked, trying to keep up with the back and forth. They spoke so quickly and fluidly, one’s words sliding into the other’s, two perfect halves of a conversation. “When did it happen?” he interrupted their stream of conversation.

They both turned to look at him, slightly ruffled that he’d dare to interrupt their thoughts. “When did what happen?” they asked in unison.

“Sasha! When was she—when did she—” something inside Tim collapsed slightly and he hung his head, looking away from them, “When was she gone?”

“Oh, _that_ was just after that nasty business with the Crawling Rot?” Helen said cheerfully. “She quite stumbled _right_ into one of the Uncanny’s circles and well, that was when that changeling came out and I’m sure you know the rest.”

Yes, Tim definitely did know the rest. The changeling had lived among them stealing everything from Sasha, her home, her friends, her name and Tim had just let it happen. He hadn’t done _anything_ about it, instead gifting it perfect opportunities to sabotage any protections he tried to implement. How many people were now missing in Millbank? It had taken Sasha and it had been Martin to realise anything was wrong. Martin, who had only been in Magnuston for three months, who had barely known Sasha. It had been _him_ and not Tim who knew enough to not be fooled by the creature wearing Sasha’s life like a coat. How could Tim be so useless? Even now that he’d sealed the fairy away, he could not take pride in his victory. It had cost too much.

“Is it true that you felled the Archivist?” Michael asked Tim as though he could hear Tim’s thoughts.

“You mean Jo—” Tim managed to catch himself just in time. He had complicated feelings about Jon, primarily guilt, but he would never give the man’s name away to fairies.

Michael and Helen waited with bated breaths but when Tim clearly wasn’t going to finish the name, Helen continued. “The Watchers’ runaway Archivist. The Usurper has been quite keen on reclaiming him.”

“All plans within plans with that one,” Michael said idly.

“Yes.” Helen crossed her legs, “but is it true? You struck him down and incapacitated him?”

“That—that’s not exactly what happened. I wasn’t—it wasn’t—I didn’t want to hurt him. I didn’t know!” Tim said, desperately.

“So you _did!”_ Helen sounded delightfully scandalised. “How exciting.”

  
“Never liked the Watchers,” Michael said, “it’s where the old witch got her magic from.”

  
“The old witch? What does Gertrude have to do with this? Or even the Archivist?” Tim asked in surprise, “We’re talking about Sasha.”

  
“Quite right, we are,” Helen said, standing suddenly and clapping her hands twice, dismissing the chair. “Now, what do you want to know about the poor dear?”

“Where is she?” Tim’s question was immediate.

“In the world that is under the hills as the other side of yours,” Michael said.  
  
“I know she’s in the Otherworld,” Tim snapped, “but where is she? Can I… can I find her?”

  
“Oh? You wish to go to the Otherworld?”

“We can take you to the Otherworld,” Michael said, opening a yellow door.

“I’m not going in there now.” Tim glared at them. “ _and_ I’ll be coming back out, thanks.”

“And how do you propose you do that?”

“That’s what I wanted to ask you for,” Tim said.

“Oh, not just interest into Sasha’s wellbeing?” Helen asked snidely.

“Is she ali—”

“We don’t know,” Michael interrupted Tim, “And if we did, why would we tell you?”

“Why would we do anything you want us to? The goodness of our lungs?”

“Hearts,” Tim automatically corrected and then caught himself. They were just trying to endear themselves to him, being funny and slightly quirky, making them seem harmless. ‘Oh, look at that silly mistake, how amusing’. He couldn’t allow himself to fall for the trap of seeing them as harmless. “And why do you do anything?”

The pair looked at each other and then shrugged, “Mostly for fun.”

“For fun?”

“Ah, we used to have so much fun,” Michael reminisced, “before we were tethered here. Trapped in a where that is not our own.”

“You want me to untether you somehow.” Tim said flatly.

“If you’d be obliged.” Michael smiled at him, with an expression somewhere between happy and a threat.

“If, _if_ , I were to agree to do that,” Tim said very slowly, picking over his words, “would you help me rescue Sasha?”

“That rather depends…”

“… on what you would be asking of us.”

“You can make rings, right? That’s what your door is,” Tim said slowly.

“Rings are so old fashioned,” Helen said.

“Sure, but they go, can they go anywhere in the Otherworld?” Tim flexed his hand as he spoke, stopping himself from drumming his fingers against his leg.

Helen shrugged slightly. “To a degree, doors can go anywhere…”

“… but whether we can go through them is another question.” Michael looked inquisitively at Tim. “You want a door to a location of your choice?”

“To where Sasha is.” Tim insisted.

Michael and Helen looked at each other and then back at Tim. “No,” they said in unison.

“Why not?”

“She’s not in our territory and holding a door open to the Strangers is…”

“Unpleasant,” Michael finished. “And why should we?”

They wanted something from Tim, that much was obvious. Tim did not want to give them anything, half hoping their slight affection for Sasha would be enough for them to agree to help him. That hope was looking more and more naïve. He had to give them something in exchange for rescuing Sasha. “Fine,” he said quietly, “what do you want from me?”

“A deal! That’s not much to ask, now is it?”

“I need to know what you want from me before I agree to anything,” Tim insisted.

“We weren’t always here, we do not want to be here. Being here has stolen our purpose from us.”

“How do—”

“Can you imagine having your who separated from your what?” Helen asked, “We’ve been pulled out of our what forcefully—”

“—by the old witch.” Michael’s voice was filled with hate, “and now we exist only as whos with half-formed whats in the wrong where.”

“I don’t understand,” Tim said, trying to follow what they meant. Gertrude apparently did _something_ that had given them a kind of identity crisis.

“Of course you don’t,” Michael said dismissively.

Helen leaned forward, more willing to try to explain. “Before the Old Witch, we could go anywhere, we were free, we could do _anything_. And always, we walked within the Court of Lies, because we were a part of it and it a part of us. And we made mad merriment where’er we went. But she didn’t like that. Thought we were too much of a nuisance. So, she _bound_ us with string and eyes and trapped us in your world, _severing_ the Court right out of us and we are unable to return. Only able to open doors to it but never to walk home ourselves.”

“She should have died for that,” Michael said, examining his hands, “we should have killed her but…”

“… she knew what she was doing and hid whatever mechanism she used to hold us to this land,” Helen said, “if we killed her, we’d never find it and we’d never be able to free ourselves. But now she’s dead either way, a waste really.” Tim decided to move past the fact that Gertrude was dead. He’d suspected it, and indeed most everyone suspected it, for a while but it was still different to hear it said with such nonchalant surety. Gertrude Robinson was dead. He couldn’t focus on that right now, though. 

“Would’ve liked to run my claws through her.” The ends of Michael’s fingers were looking distinctly less human now.

“And you want me to free you?” Tim guessed, a sinking feeling settling in his stomach.

“Yes!” Helen said brightly. “A simple deal, our freedom for your friend’s freedom.”

“I can’t—I won’t just set your free to hurt people.”

“Well, we’re open to negotiations, perhaps you can make us agree to not hurt anyone from around here? Leave Conventry, Magnuston and all the rest alone?”

Tim glared. He wasn’t going to allow such vague wording that could give the pookas wriggle room. “You will open a door to the Stranger’s Court for me to go through, as near to Sasha as possible and in exchange, I will attempt to the best of my ability to free you from the binding Gertrude used on you and once you’re… free, you will not ever hurt anyone who from Magnuston, Conventry or Millbank or the surrounding area. You won’t come back here, ever show your face here again once you’re unbound.”

Michael and Helen exchanged a complex silent conversation through facial expressions that Tim could not keep up with. Several of those expressions were ones Tim didn’t think a face could make naturally.

“We can agree to that deal,” Helen said and stretched a hand out to Tim. He eyed it warily. Was he seriously going to do this? He hated fairies and everything associated with them. He hated people who tolerated and dealt with them. They were just enablers. It was the reason he’d been so wound up about Jon, Tim had been convinced he’d been enabling fairies. And now, here Tim was, trying to make a deal with one of the most untrustworthy duo who regularly tried to break people’s minds for fun. What was he doing? This was a betrayal of everything he stood for and yet…

It was for Sasha. Tim didn’t think he would be able to live with himself if he didn’t put all his effort into saving her from her fate. It wasn’t fair what happened to her. She didn’t deserve it and it was Tim’s fault, he hadn’t noticed and now she—so he had to save her, whatever the cost. If that cost was his integrity, Tim supposed he would have to pay it.

Tim reached out and took Helen’s hand. His skin crawled and he wasn’t sure if it was from the deeply uncomfortable texture of Helen’s hand or his disgust with himself for doing this. They shook their hands together twice before Tim quickly extracted his hand, cradling it as though it had been burned. He felt distinctly unclean.

“Well, that was beneficial,” Michael said, “we’ll have the door be opened on Hallowe’en.”

“Wait, what?” Tim straightened up in shock, “the deal—”

“Never said _when_ we were to uphold our end,” Michael said, “if you wanted a different time, you really ought to have specified.”

“But—”

“Too late!” Helen crowed. “And consider, this will also give you a better chance. Why, the whole Uncanny Court will be so busy with their invasion that they won’t notice you walking past them in the opposite direction.”

“You know about the invasion?” Tim asked, grasping at that other pressing piece of business. Not-Sasha had mentioned it, but Tim had no other leads as to what it had meant.

“We hold no love of those Strangers who wear other’s faces,” Michael said, “it’s so… unsubtle.”

“They really could put more of an effort in,” Helen agreed.

“What are they planning? Tell me.” Tim was desperate to know. Because if the Stranger’s Court was going to be making a move on Hallowe’en, the night with the weakest boundaries between the worlds, then it would be serious, potentially destroying the whole area or even more. And if that was the case, then he needed to be there to fight them but he also needed to be in the Otherworld to save Sasha.

“The Court of the Strange want what we all want, more,” Helen said, “your world is so full and you scarcely use it. Why would we not reach for it? Bring our music into a silence?”

“Is this something all Courts want?” Tim asked, utterly appalled.

“Wouldn’t you?”

“No! No, it would be terrible. You’re all terrible,” Tim snapped, “If it’s something that you want, that they all want, then why are you--- are you telling me this?”

“You really don’t listen,” Helen mused, “because the Uncanny Court is abhorrent.”

“And we would like to see them fail,” Michael said. “So, we shall tell you that on Hallowe’en night, they will try to conquer your little world…”

“… the Faceless Queen will ride out,” Helen said. “And what will you do?”

“I—” Tim started, no idea how to continue. The Faceless fairy, the one who had killed Danny. She was going to be going out again to hurt more people. Just the idea of her set his blood boiling. He wanted to tear at her and scream and hurt her until there was nothing left. It might even be considered noble to do so in defence of Conventry. But— “why do you have to open the door on Hallowe’en?”

“Because that is the night it will be,” Michael said in such a circuitous statement that Tim almost leapt to punch him.

“Why can’t you just do it now or—”

Michael talked over him, “You’ve heard our offer, one door into the Strange’s realm on Hallowe’en night. Whether you go through it and save Sasha is entirely your own decision…”

“… but if you do survive, with or without Sasha” Helen smiled at him, “then you _will_ unbind us and we’ll leave forever. Those are the terms you have agreed to.”

“Why is this a once-off deal? Why can’t you just not be so fucking—” Tim ground his teeth, “if I don’t save Sasha, the deal’s off!”

“Well, you really should have specified that before agreeing to the deal,” laughed Helen.

“Now be off with you,” Michael dismissed him. Tim glowered, unwilling to turn his back on the fairies. He would not give in to them.

But between his blinks, the Lying Twins disappeared, leaving endless grass stretching out in every direction. Tim reached for the waxy fire paper and started walking in a random direction. Now that the deal had been made, he had no problems with threatening to set fire to everything. If Helen and Michael didn’t let him out of the illusory world they’d crafted, then they’d just have to get burned.

…

From behind a fold in reality, the thing sometimes called Helen turned to the thing sometimes called Michael. “That was quite a success…

“… it is a win-win-win situation.” It agreed. “and now we’ve completed the other part of our deal with our watching friend.”

“I did not think that he would come for us. Goes to show humans are utterly incomprehensible.”

“Takes a human to know a human.” One of them said, the other nodded in agreement. There was a pause, or as much of a pause as those two could allow.

“Which way do you suspect it will go?”

“I have no idea, it will be entertaining whichever way…”

“… they end up. We’ll be free. No matter how it happens…”

“… when the dust settles, we’ll have won.”

“Really,” maybe-Helen said, “I don’t know why more don’t double deal…”

“… triple deal even.”

“It’s beneficial.”

Another pause. Outside their bubble, Tim was swearing quite rapidly. They watched him vaguely.

“Do you have any preference?” One of them eventually said.

“A preference sounds dangerously close to having a thought,” the other said.

“Obviously an incorrect notion.”

“Obviously.”

“But if you did?”

Sometimes-Michael cocked its head to the side, “I rather hope they snatch Sasha from the Strangers’ jaws.”

“Rub iron into the wound,” its companion nodded, “would be funny.”

“Wouldn’t it.” They paused again before the hare pooka continued, “and you? Any preference?”

“Between a Watchers’ world, an Uncanny world, and a human world? Please, you already know the answer to that.” Maybe-Helen scoffed. Tim pulled out a stolen work from the Burning Court and started threatening to burn down their lies.

“We should let him out.” They both said idly.

They nodded at each other and smoothed out reality, stepping back from this horribly untarnished existence, back into the uncomfortable space between worlds that had been their existence for so long. “I do wonder how it will all play out for him,” one of them said, “if he actually will succeed.”

“What will happened will happen.” The other said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, I love writing Michael and Helen. They have their own agenda, and while they are not the biggest threat to our protagonists, they will most certainly be the ones to get what they want out of what is quickly becoming quite a complex situation. 
> 
> Next chapter: Martin attends a book club and receives a phone call.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter may have more typos because things went a bit kaput this week, so I didn't have time to give it a proper edit. Apologies.

“This feels like a book club,” Martin said as Basira put the mugs of tea on the table.

Daisy snorted, “Most book clubs aren’t focused on stolen manuscripts.”

“We didn’t steal anything,” Basira repeated.

“Yeah,” Martin said, “nothing was, um, taken out of…”

“Of the place you broke into.” Daisy sounded amused. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

“It was Basira’s idea,” Martin mumbled.

“It was?” Daisy seemed surprised by that and turned to Basira. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You didn’t ask,” Basira said impassively and sat down. Daisy rolled her eyes and took a deep drink of her still hot tea. The three of them were sat in the kitchen in Basira and Daisy’s home. Martin hadn’t really had any expectations of what their home would be like, but it somehow managed to fit every one of them. It was mostly tidy, with what looked like a very comprehensive filing system but it had misplaced shoes and coats and small smears of mud on the varnished wood floor that matched the mud on Daisy’s runners. There were a surprising number of rugs scattered around the place, including a prayer mat neatly positioned in the living room and a yoga mat sprawling in a different corner. Martin could almost _see_ Basira and Daisy’s housekeeping tendencies warring with each other.

“Well, what did you learn?” Daisy pushed on, trying not to focus on Basira leaving her out of the loop.

“Magnus was undoubtably involved with the gentry,” Basira said promptly.

Martin nodded slowly in agreement, “Definitely. It was the reason he moved south. The neighbours in the area.”

“Is here an unusually, er, neighbour-y area,” Daisy looked very serious, muscles tensing.

“I don’t know,” Martin said. “Not that I can see? It’s just like any other rural spot. Like, there’s quite a lot of fa— _fair folk_ and that’s, you know, not great but… but everywhere’s like that really. I can’t see why it’d be different—Unless,” Martin suddenly had an epiphany. “The circle in the woods, the massive one, maybe that’s why! It’s huge and powerful and definitely is something you see anywhere else.”

“Oh shit,” Daisy said, furrowing her brow, “that makes a lot of sense.”

“It’s a good theory but actually,” Basira raised a finger as she explained, “Magnus’ family just happened to hold land here, and he simply wished to leave Edinburgh. Anywhere out of the city would have done it for him.”

Martin and Daisy both stared at her. She blinked slowly back at them. “One of the journals was his diary at the time of his move and he was _not_ cautious about mentioning his curiosity about the lords and ladies. Really, you’d expect a bit more subtlety.”

“Different time?” Daisy suggested.

“Doubt it, I think he was just really weird,” Martin said, remembering the journal he’d read. The man had been fascinated about the fairies. “At any rate, he definitely got taken by the fairies. I mean, there were several times he mentioned feeling watched in the forest and there was one seriously _weird_ encounter he had… Also, a lot of his friends were really into the occult. One of them seems to have never left the Empty Moor. At least, I think that’s what happened, Magnus called it ‘the Forsaken Moor’.”

“I think it may have once been academic curiosity,” Basira said, “he seems the type. Very invested in taxonomy but then, over time…”

“Something more active?” Daisy asked.

“Definitely,” Basira said, “in fact, I think he did a ritual.”

“What kind of—”

“He made the large circle.” Basira jabbed a finger at the table for emphasis. “I’m certain of it.”

“Wait, what?” Martin’s eyes widened in surprise while Daisy asked “What circle?”

“It’s a really large neighbour ring in the woods just north of here,” Martin explained. “It’s really old and _really_ dangerous. When J-Jane Prentiss tried to kill us, she went to it and it seemed important to Not-Sasha. It’s just a bloody great hole in the world!”

Daisy swore then turned to Basira. “How did you know about this?”

Basira shifted, slightly uneasily. “Exploration.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“I was going to,” Basira said, looking at the spot just over Daisy’s shoulder. “I just needed the right moment.”

Daisy looked like she was going to say something but Martin decided to head off whatever potential argument was brewing between the two women. “And you think,” he said to Basira, “that Magnus made it?”

Basira turned her attention away from her partner, onto Martin. “I am certain. Magnus made excessively detailed maps of the forests, including any unusual formations like rocks and especially rings. If it was there, he would’ve included it in his cartography.”

“Couldn’t it have just formed after he died?” Daisy asked.

“If it did,” Martin thought aloud, “then it would have to have done so _very_ shortly after Magnus’ disappearance. With the size of it, it has to be almost two centuries.”

“Almost two centuries?” Daisy echoed, an expression of mild disbelief on her face.

“It’s not exactly a hard science,” Martin defended, “there are no real metrics to go off of apart from gut instinct.”

“The timeline suggests,” Basira said, “that the ring opened up at a similar time to Magnus’ disappearance in 1818. At the very earliest it couldn’t be before his mapping of the area in 1816.”

“Except,” Daisy said, “There is such a large period of time that the circle _could’ve_ opened up, that you can’t make any real assumptions. And even if the ring was made that same time as Magnus’ vanishing, that doesn’t mean he made it. Could’ve been _anyone_ from the area, he’s not the only person who existed in Magnuston in the 19th century. Or, _or,_ it could’ve been the neighbours themselves. We do not know.”

They fell into a silence. Basira seemed to want to argue in favour of her thesis but couldn’t bring herself to do more than exude a displeased aura. Martin awkwardly drank his tea to avoid eye contact with either of them but when they didn’t seem inclined to continue the conversation, Martin realised he’d had to get the ball going again. “Except,” he said, “Magnus manor was so full of magic. It was old, I’ll bet almost as old as the ring. It’s unlikely that’s a coincidence. Additionally, we’ve _seen_ that he was obsessed with the gentry. He wrote about it and then just up and vanished one day, no trace of a body or foul play. Isn’t it most likely that he ran to the lords and ladies?”

Daisy didn’t say anything but Basira nodded. “That was what I was thinking. He even mentioned wanting to make a direct connection near the end of his last diary. With how self-important he acted, I’m fairly certain he would go out with a bang.” This was all conjecture but it felt right to Martin.

He opened his mouth to agree with Basira when he felt his phone start vibrating in his pocket. He pulled it out, intending on hanging up on the incoming call and going back to the conversation with Basira and Daisy (after all, it was important) but then he saw the caller. It was Georgie. Martin was suddenly plunged into ice. He’d exchanged numbers with Georgie after they’d met in the hospital but they hadn’t been in contact since and Martin could only think of one reason why Georgie would call him.

“Sorry, I just need to answer this,” Martin said vaguely to Basira and Daisy, standing up and wandering out of the kitchen. He didn’t even notice the looks they shot each other as he left. Once Martin reached the hall, he leant against the wall and held his phone in his shaking hands. He fumbled it slightly as he accepted the call and had to make sure he didn’t drop it.

“G-Georgie?” He answered the call, voice trembling slightly no matter how much he tried to remain steady.

“Oh Martin, I was worried I was going to ring out.” Georgie’s slightly distorted voice came out of the mobile’s speakers. “I just wanted to get a hold of you.”

“Is everything okay?” Martin asked, words almost tripping over themselves in his eagerness to force them out.

“Yeah,” Georgie said softly, “things are okay. I’m at the hospital right now-” Martin’s heart did something complicated in his chest. “-and it’s definitive. Jon’s woken up.”

“Oh my god,” Martin whispered. His legs felt weak and his insides were soaring. Jon was awake.

“He’s being examined right now,” Georgie said, “They called me because I’m his emergency contact but they think he’s going to be alright.”

“Can…” Martin paused, gathering himself, “can I see him?”

“Well, I just spent the past hour fighting to be able to see him,” Georgie said, slightly amused “but now that they’ve acquiesced, I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to get you in there.”

“And he’s… he’s really okay?” Martin asked, delicate hope filling him.

“I really think he is,” Georgie said.

“I’m coming now,” Martin said, already hurrying over to the coat hanger to grab his jacket. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Fifteen if I speed!”

“I mean, you don’t want to end up in hospital either,” Georgie said wryly. “Anyway, I just thought you’d want to know.”

“Yes.” Martin’s voice trembled. “I did. Thank you for calling me.”

“It was the least I could do.”

Martin nodded not even considering that Georgie couldn’t see him. “I—I’ll be there soon. Thank you.” He hung up his phone, stuffing it back in his jeans pocket and finished struggling his jacket on.

He stumbled back into the kitchen. Basira raised a think eyebrow. “Your urgent business concluded?”

“What? Um, sure,” Martin said distractedly, “listen, I have to go. Georgie just called and Jon’s woken up and I have to go see him and make sure he’s okay and—”

“Wait,” Daisy interjected, “Jon’s woken up?”

“ _Yes,”_ Martin said, anxious to get moving, “so I need to go see him. We’ll do this again some other time.”

“Wait,” Daisy said, standing, “I want to come—”

But Martin was already hurrying out the door. Basira put a hand on Daisy’s arm and gave her a slight shake of the head. “I think Martin wants to see Jon alone.”

Daisy sat back down rather sullenly. “Jon’s my friend too.”

“I know,” Basira said. “We’ll see him soon.”

“Sure,” Daisy said, feeling distinctly like she was being dictated to.

…

Martin stumbled out of his car, a hurried mess. He’d been impatient parking and had almost scraped the side of a black Ford fiesta. When he left his mini, he gave the other car a quick once over. It looked in tact but Martin was in such a hurry he barely gave thought to how weird it was for a Ford to have black tinted windows. He just went straight across the parking lot with no regard for any cars driving. They should get out of his way, not the other way around. Martin wasn’t quite running when he made it to the hospital’s glass automatic doors, but it was a near thing. He barely remembered to use the hand sanitiser from the dispensary beside the door, too keen on getting to the reception.

He didn’t know if Jon had been moved or was in the same room or if he was out with doctors getting health tests or whatever. The entrance area was largely empty with just a few people sitting on the plastic chairs of the café or queueing for the reception. Martin joined the end of the line and anxiously bounced on the balls of his feet. He tried to will people to move faster. As he waited, glanced around the room, the nervous energy needing some kind of outlet. His gazed passed over the café and then snapped back to it because—

What the hell?

What was Oliver Banks doing here? Martin felt a chill as he watched the other man take his coffee from the barista and begin walking off. Martin was torn. He desperately wanted to see Jon, but Oliver being here was setting off all of his alarm bells. Now that he knew what was apparently standard for most witches, he had lost trust in all of them. He had no reason to believe that Oliver, or Mike Crew for that matter, were any different from Annabelle. After all, they associated with her and he was fairly certain they were more aware of what witchcraft actually entailed compared to him. And they’d helped keep Martin in the dark about what he was actually signing up to do, leaving him to be blindsided when he struck out on his own. It may have been Annabelle leading the deception, but they had participated.

So, Oliver being here was ominous. Martin could not believe he was here out of any benevolence. It might be a coincidence, but Millbank hospital was far too far north for Oliver to just casually be here, there were hospitals nearer to his home. But Martin couldn’t think of why Oliver would be here. A part of Martin was convinced that it was because of Jon, that Oliver was here to do _something_ to Jon. Martin tried to dismiss those feelings, Oliver didn’t even know Jon existed, but still they persisted.

Alternatively, he could be here for Martin. Martin didn’t like that thought much more than the previous one. At any rate, he couldn’t just let Oliver wander off without giving him answers.

Martin slightly reluctantly, left the queue and strode over to where Oliver was casually loitering by a depressed potted plant.

“Oliver, unusual to see you here,” Martin said in an attempt at a casual tone.

“Ah, hello Martin,” Oliver said with his characteristic tired smile. “Good to see you.”

“Why are you here?” Martin asked.

Oliver gave a slightly bitter snort, “I take it you won’t believe me if I say I’m just picking up testosterone?”

“I’d definitely think that this is very out of your way.” Martin’s eyes narrowed as he examined Oliver. He looked fairly terrible but then again, he always had. The bags under his eyes looked almost painful and left his eyes sunken in his face. His skin was ashen and the cornrows Martin could see under his white witch’s hat were crooked. Oliver was a walking warning for chronic fatigue.

“I always told Annabelle and Mike that you weren’t stupid,” Oliver said, still smiling wanly. “Not that Mike would ever listen to me and Annabelle is so convinced she knows how everyone operates, she just can’t be wrong. Then again, she very rarely is wrong…”

“So are you going to tell me why you’re here?” Martin asked, exasperated. He hadn’t asked for Oliver’s assessment of his intelligence.

Oliver seemed to think it through, sipping his coffee. “Probably. I don’t really have the energy for deception today. It’s a long drive up here, you know, and I got barely any sleep last night.”

“Never stopped you before,” Martin bit out before he could stop himself.

“What?” Oliver blinked at him, lost at the change in conversation.

“Never mind,” Martin muttered, there were important things for Oliver to answer. “Why are you here?”

“No, no,” Oliver shook his head, trying to clear it. “What did you mean about me deceiving you before?”

And Martin couldn’t stop himself. It was how confused Oliver looked about the question that made him blurt out, “You knew. About what being a witch was really like and you never told me. You just helped Annabelle weave whatever plans she had for me.”

“Oh,” Oliver said slowly, “Yes, that. I did do that.”

“Is that all?” Martin asked in disbelief, “That’s all you’re going to say? ‘Yes, I did lie to you about the nature of our craft and let you believe that you were going to be helping people instead of just acting as some kind of middleman to the lords and ladies’, _really_?”

“Well, I don’t think you really want an apology, so…” Oliver shrugged. “And I didn’t want… You were happy not knowing, it was a lot easier for you.”

“I—” Martin didn’t know if he was happy back then, all his memories of time with Annabelle had been soured. “I still should’ve known. It wasn’t fair to just leave me in the dark like that. You let Annabelle just toss me to the wolves out of curiosity and have nothing to say?”

“I suppose I was a bit envious of your ignorance,” Oliver mused, taking another drink. “That you could exist without knowing how we exists just as puppets for the Courts. You could be innocent. You could sleep.”

“What? Guilty conscience keeping you up at night?” Martin scoffed. Oliver was so full of it.

“Not really…” Oliver said and paused, considering what he was going to say. “All of the Courts are evil in their own ways and I would never claim any to be more merciful but… if asked which was the cruellest? It would have to the Court of Endings. Its everywhere, barely coherent. It doesn’t scheme like the others, doesn’t fight but it still takes and takes until there is nothing left, just an end.”

“What does this have to do with anything?”

Oliver sighed. “I suppose I’m just jealous of those who got to choose to become involved with the good neighbours. I just went to sleep one day and then they were there and now I’m a witch.” Oliver smiled bitterly. “I was going to be an accountant. I’m not sure if that would’ve been much better. Anyway, seeing you not knowing just, well, everything. It seemed like such a gift. I didn’t want to take that away.”

“It wasn’t your choice,” Martin said. “It was mine. I would’ve wanted to know.”

“Would you?” Oliver asked solemnly. “It’s hardly pleasant.”

“Better that than to be left completely—” Martin cut himself off and took a few calming breaths. “Oliver, you still haven’t told me why you’re here.”

“Right.” Oliver tried to take a drink from his coffee but then frowned and took the lid off, to look inside. “God, they really weren’t putting a lot in there, were they?”

“ _Oliver_ ”

“Annabelle told me to come here,” Oliver said simply, “she had a favour she wanted me to do.”

“What favour?” Martin asked, the chill seeping back down his back.

“She wanted me to wake up a patient,” Oliver said lightly. “He was in a coma, from what I could tell quite tangled up with the local Courts. You probably know him, actually.”

“Oh god…” Martin whispered.

“Annabelle said it was a little gift for you,” Oliver said. “So it’s probably something you should keep an eye on.”

“What does she want?” Martin moaned. “Tell her to stop interfering. I’m angry with her and don’t _want_ her meddling with my life. What, does she think she can just wake Jon up and suddenly everything’s okay? I’ll just forgive her? Or is this just some other part of her plan. I want her to just leave Jon and I alone!”

“Sensible,” Oliver said, swirling the dregs of his coffee, “for what it’s worth, I do think she cares about. More than as some kind of experiment but it was a manipulative move and you don’t owe her anything.”

“I’m still angry at you too,” Martin snapped. “I don’t want you hanging around either.”

“Alright, I’ll go then,” Oliver said, moving to walk away the pausing and turning back to Martin. “Listen, I know being a witch and wanting to not hurt people is really hard, so if you ever need… an ear I suppose, you can call me.”

“And have it all go back to Annabelle? I don’t think so,” Martin said, “Anyway, I’m being a witch my way. Without helping the neighbours or hurting anyone.”

Oliver gave him a slightly pitying look. “I hope that works out for you.”

“It’s better than acting like there’s nothing I can do.” Martin glared at Oliver.

Oliver didn’t really have a response, just a small shrug and a defeated expression. He ambled away from Martin, dropping the empty coffee cup in a bin as he passed by. Martin watched him until he was well out of the hospital and then relaxed slightly.

A part of him didn’t think Oliver was that bad a guy, just someone put in a bad situation and unwilling to fight against it. Having Elias press into Martin’s head had been such an unpleasant experience that Martin didn’t know if he’d be able to endure it nightly. But on the other hand, why wouldn’t he fight? Why just accept collaborating with the fairies as inventible and inescapable. Martin would’ve thought having them in your dreams would be motivator.

And that was all without getting into the mess that was Annabelle. Martin hated how large she loomed, casting a shadow over him even as he tried to get away from her. It had hurt so much to learn that their relationship was so uneven, manipulative. It didn’t matter if Annabelle really did care about him, Martin thought, it mattered that she’d abused his trust. He didn’t think he would ever be able to forgive her that.

As for Annabelle sending Oliver to see Jon, that was also incredibly worrying. Martin didn’t think Oliver would have done anything to Jon. He’d always been a fantastic healer with some kind of aptitude for ‘seeing life and its endings’, and Oliver had never seemed to be the kind to be cruel just for cruelty’s sake. Then again, Martin didn’t really know Oliver, not really. There were two options for why Annabelle would ask Oliver to heal Jon.

One, it was an attempt to ingratiate herself to Martin. This was an infuriating notion and made Martin no more inclined towards her. It was just a continuation of her being in a position of power, being able to save someone Martin cared about was definitely something she would hold over him. Martin didn’t want her to have that power. However, that was less worrying than the other possibility of Jon being another piece on her chess board that she was manoeuvring into position. Just like Martin had been. He wouldn’t let her use Jon like that. He refused. If it came to it, Martin would fight Annabelle for Jon’s safety. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but he would do it.

But for now he was going to see Jon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know! Cliffhangers! They are terrible. Would you believe me if I said that it wasn't my intent to have one here? Initially this chapter would have included Jon and Martin's reunion but then Oliver Banks showed up which completely changed this chapter and it wouldn't have worked pacing wise to have the reunion. So you'll have to wait another week. My bad.
> 
> Next chapter: Martin gets to hear Jon's voice again


	27. Chapter 27

Martin managed to get Jon’s room number off the receptionist after minimal queue waiting and general arguing. She hadn’t been certain if Jon was able to receive visitors but Martin had just given her a Look and she’d caved. Martin had then been off, hurrying through the maze of lifts and nigh identical corridors. He must have been moving with purpose because everyone gave him a wide berth. Martin barely noticed, too focused on getting to Jon. His shoes clacked loudly on the floor and he could hear his pulse in his ears. A mixture of excitement and anxiety flooded his chest. He was going to be seeing Jon.

After what seemed like an impossibly long ten minutes, Martin reached Jon’s ward. He gave a vague nod to the nurse outside it and kept striding forwards so she didn’t even think to stop him. The ward was quieter than Jon’s previous room with the only sound being a rather low telly as opposed to painfully heart monitor. It was larger as it had to accommodate about six patients. There were rather tired orange curtains on rails separating each bed to give privacy. Jon was in bed three so that would be one of the two at the end of what was suddenly a massive room.

Martin swallowed. There was suddenly a lump in his throat and his hands were trembling. He tried to steady them. Shit, where do hands go normally. Just hanging by his sides? But that felt wrong. Should he hold them together? That also felt weird. Oh god, he was about to see Jon. Jon was about to see him. Distantly, he realised that he’d stopped breathing.

Martin took a deep breath and shook his hands a couple time before straightening up and walking down to the beds at the end of the room. The one on the right was empty and, on the left—

“Martin?”

Jon looked up at Martin, happiness pulling at his tired face. He looked so small in the bed, swallowed under the blanket and propped up against pillows. His hair had been pulled back in a half-hearted ponytail that caught the golden afternoon sun streaming through the window. And he was awake, blinking up at Martin. Martin hadn’t realised how much he’d loved Jon’s eyes.

“Hi, Jon,” Martin’s mouth was suddenly very dry. Jon smiled at him and the world was made of light. Martin walked over to sit beside Jon’s bed, not even noticing the uncomfortable chairs.

They both spoke at once. “I wanted to—” “Happy to see—” They both stopped and stared at each other. It was Jon who started laughing first, more of a snigger but when Martin started laughing too, Jon let go and laughed outright. Martin readily joined in, so relieved and happy because here he was. Here they both were.

“You go first,” Jon said, once they both stopped.

“I… I’m so glad you’re okay,” Martin said. “I was—I was really worried.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon started to say but Martin interrupted him before he could continue.

“You don’t need to apologise,” Martin said emphatically. “Jon, you’ve done nothing wrong.”

“It’s… it’s been so strange,” Jon said in a strained voice. “It was like nothing happened to me. I just… The last thing I remember is falling over and being terrified because—and then I woke up here. It doesn’t fee real, not like I’ve missed _weeks_ of my life. Although,” Jon said bitterly, “I really should be used to that feeling.”

Martin squeezed Jon’s hand. “There’s no right way to feel about this. It must… it must be so scary for you.”

“I haven’t really had time to think honestly,” Jon said. He smiled. “You have impeccable timing, the doctors only just left me alone.”

Martin smiled somewhat sheepishly. “I try.”

“You really do,” Jon said, brimming with sincerity.

“…thank you,” Martin said quietly, only for Jon to squeeze his hand. He smiled. “I really missed you, Jon.”

“I… well, I can’t really say it back,” Jon said and Martin laughed shakily, “but I am so glad to see you.”

Martin smiled gently and the two sat in companiable silence. Jon rubbed his thumb gently across the back of Martin’s hand and Martin tried not to cry.

“I read you poetry,” he blurted out.

“What?” Jon said, confused by the suddenness of the statement.

“While you were, um, asleep. I read you… poetry.” Martin’s voice petered out as he felt silly.

“That’s… that’s very sweet, Martin,” Jon said.

“I was just—I was so _worried_ about you,” Martin gasped out suddenly. “I didn’t know if you’d ever wake up and I couldn’t—I just—you had to wake up and now you have and I’m so happy but it’s still—It almost feels too good to be true. Like it’s some kind of trick.”

“It’s not,” Jon said firmly, “Martin, I am right here. I’m not going anywhere. I’m here.”

“I just worry about… about what could happen to you,” Martin whispered. “You only woke up because—”

“I only woke up because of what?” Jon asked, growing concerned.

“Annabelle,” Martin answered. “She, god it’s just like her, she sent one of her coven to wake you using some magic. And I don’t know _why_.”

Jon opened his mouth to try to reassure Martin, but Martin just ploughed on. “And while I was visiting you, Elias was there. And I don’t know what _he_ wants either. But they all seem to want something to do with you and I just—” Martin stopped, too caught up in emotions.

“What happened?” Jon asked, concerned.

Martin gave a quick summary of Elias’ visit and Martin’s encounter with Oliver. When he finished, he hung his head and whispered sadly, “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

Jon didn’t say anything for a long time, just kept holding Martin’s hand. Martin could feel his pulse through their skin contact and when the ward’s noise level dipped, he could hear Jon’s breathing. He could still hear Jon’s body’s rhythm. There was something comforting in that. He’d grown so used to it from visiting Jon and now that he was awake, Martin could still fall into step with it.

“I want to say something comforting,” Jon said, eventually, “but I don’t know what that is. I can’t say that nothing bad will happen and I can’t say that Elias won’t do— because he’s too powerful and I don’t know how to stop him. I don’t want to go, I don’t want to leave you but I can’t stop anything from happening. I mean,” Jon gave a bitter laugh, “whenever I try to help you I seem to just get in the way.”

“You’re not in the way,” Martin said.

“I just made everything more complicated by showing up when you were trying to deal with the changeling. If I hadn’t been there Tim—”

“That’s on Tim, not you,” Martin insisted, “you can’t control how other people feel or act or any of it. I appreciated it. You wanted to help me because… because you care. And anyway, we did trap the changeling properly. I just… I don’t know. I just want you to be safe.”

“You know I want that for you too,” Jon said.

“I suppose,”

“Look at the pair of us,” Jon said sadly, “both running off into danger.”

Martin snorted. “Maybe next time we’ll actually manage to run off together.”

“And then you’ll protect me from all the gentry?” Jon joked.

“I absolutely would,” Martin said seriously. Jon blinked in surprise and stared at Martin, heart in his throat. He was totally overwhelmed by such a straightforward declaration of protection. It wasn’t something he really had any experience with.

“I never finished telling you about Elias,” Jon said.

“You don’t have to. Jon, you’re in hosp—”

“I want to Martin,” Jon interrupted. “I really—I want you to know.”

“If it’s just because Elias did his thing to me…”

“It’s not.” Jon said quickly and then reconsidered. “Okay, it’s a bit because of that because you now deserve it but more I just… I want to tell you.”

“Alright,” Martin said. “Take your time.”

Jon took a deep breath and then released it. “So, I told you about how James, well… ingratiated himself to me. Made me trust him and then I was foolish enough to follow him into the Otherworld. It’s… it’s utterly alien there. I was only in the Watchers’ lands but it was… you were always watched. The feeling was so intense it was almost physical. Eyes everywhere. Everything was built with glass. It was… beautiful. At least when you couldn’t hear the screams.

Elias put me in his library. I was a _pet.”_ Jon spat the word. “A trophy. I was curate his archive, supplement accounts, hoard knowledge, learn. That’s why the other gentry knew me as the Archivist. Elias couldn’t just have my name be common knowledge. What’s the point in having a tool if everyone can use it?

“The worst part… the worst part was that he could also be kind. Reassuring. I’d hardly say he was nice but he kept me safe and could be… complimentary. But he didn’t actually, he couldn’t have. Because-because it was _terrible_. He kept me so trapped, there was no room to breathe. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to leave. I thought I’d be stuck there forever. Never see Georgie again or my grandmother, never see the sky. Elias was keen on telling me just how impossible it was to escape. That I’d always be his.

“I only escaped by accident. The Court of the Mother tried some invasion of the Beholding Court’s territory and Elias was so distracted that I could just… slip out of the archive. Everything was such a blur, I still don’t remember _how_ I got out of the Otherworld. In a strange way, Elias’ warnings about escape actually helped me. I knew not to touch the ground, that more time had probably passed.  
That walk through the forest back to Magnuston was the most terrifying night of my life. I was so tired but so scared. If I stopped, I would sleep and if I slept, they would catch me. I could _feel_ the lords and ladies watching me, watching me escape their grasp. ‘Troublesome little Archivist’. But I made it.

“And then there was a whole thing because I’d been presumed dead because it had been a _decade_. My grandmother was dead and Georgie had a girlfriend now. I hadn’t even known we’d broken up. The whole world had just… moved on and I was stuck in the past.

I keep _waiting_ for there to be consequences for the whole thing. I know Elias will one day do something; he’s just toying with me. I don’t know _why_ and the whole time I tried to build a life, I had to constantly be on guard in case… well.” Jon vaguely gestured at the hospital and Martin nodded along in understanding, still clutching Jon’s hand. “I suppose I don’t have to worry about that one. But it’s like living with a sword hanging over your head. I _know_ it’s going to fall on me one day. It made it so _hard_ to do anything. I didn’t want anything because eventually it would be torn from me. I couldn’t live because it was only a matter of time before…” Jon trailed off, voice heavy. There were tears forming in the corners of his eyes.

Jon blinked hard and then turned to Martin. “But then you came and just kept being there and I thought maybe… Maybe I could have this?”

Martin lunged forward and pulled Jon into a tight hug. Jon clutched back, trembling with relief. Martin rested his head over Jon’s shoulder, face in Jon’s soft hair while Jon held onto him for dear.

“You can have this,” Martin whispered. “You’ll always have me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My only writer's comment is that college is timeconsuming so the chapter is short. And unedited. Yay.  
> Also I am going to end my weekly update schedule. I will still try to have them for Saturday but that is currently a tad unfeasible. This is the second week in a row I've had to pull out all the stocks on a Saturday to get this updated on time. So the schedule is officially dead, I will try for Saturday but it may be later. I think this is better than irregular hiatuses.  
> In better news, thank you all so much for 400 kudoses! Seriously, this is incredible.
> 
> Next chapter: Jon is discharged from hospital and Martin can't wait to get him into gardening

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Leave a comment or a kudos if you did so.


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